


Servant of the One True King

by semiiramiis (HikaruAdjani)



Series: Servant of the One True King [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HikaruAdjani/pseuds/semiiramiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all at Light's Hope were betrayed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first clue that Declan had which showed him that this year's assault was different was when he caught glance of the form across the encampment. Compared to the others gathered nearby, she did not, at first glance, appear to be that impressive, but her presence stunned Declan. What was she doing here?

"What?" Cornelia asked, sensing the change in his demeanor. Her eyes followed his, landing squarely on what had his attention. "You know her? I don't..."

"She shouldn't be here." He breathed. Besseth simply didn't leave Icecrown. She was held so securely that he knew none outside even knew of her existence. She was too valuable to be sent on just another assault to remind Azeroth that the Lich King was not gone, not to be forgotten. Others could do what needed to be done here, better.

"Obviously." Cornelia sneered, and he glanced at her questioningly. "Well, look at her. We have better than that..."

He hissed in disagreement, striding towards the small, huddled figure. Every young death knight who passed by her ignored her, and she let them without look or comment. He'd end that, right here, right now. "Lady Besseth." He greeted loudly, snapping to attention when she looked down at him. "You do us honor with your presence on the ground here..."

"Good morning, Declan." Unlike Rasuvius, who rarely remembered any of his students when they were gone from him, Besseth remembered each of hers. Of course, for every one that Besseth had fledged, Rasuvius had trained a hundred. Quantity versus quality. She reached out and rested her fingertips on his brow for a split second, nodding slowly to herself when she pulled them back. "It is good to see you again." Her voice, while deep and raspy, lacked the ominous echo he'd become used to.

"Why are you here?" He finally asked.

She shrugged. "The master wills it." She answered acceptingly, and he nodded. That was truly all the answer he needed as well.

"Cornelia. This is Besseth Southcross. My..." Everything. She had brought him back from the dead. Made him whole again. Filled him with ability and a focus he had never had, brought him to the one true king, called him hers, and set him squarely on this path. "Mistress." He settled on it, although he found it empty. "The one who raised me and trained me."

Besseth's brown eyes, lacking the lambent blue glow which marked most of the master's knights, glanced in Cornelia's direction. "Morning." She noted, much of the tolerance gone from her voice. He knew precisely what that meant... She found Cornelia lacking. She would have never risen her, never bothered to train her. That one glance had judged, and nothing could raise Cornelia in her estimation.

"Are you here to help Rasuvius train here, then?" Cornelia asked, and Besseth snorted in denial.

"No. Unless my chosen here on the ground..." The level brown eyes rested upon Declan again, "Feel they desire my attention for some continued instruction, I will not be training."

"You have no student now?" He asked, and she shook her head in the negative.

"No, none." She looked so small, so insignificant, he understood why Cornelia was still staring at her dubiously. While the others oozed terror and a dark majesty, Besseth managed to look merely mismatched. Her hair hung in a pale, colorless braid. Her armor was piecemeal, many of the pieces salvaged from the dead of a war almost a decade gone. She wore a battered Lordaeron banner as a cloak, gathered up around her shoulders with an exorbitantly majestic chain...black saronite forged in the ribbed fashion of the gates of Icecrown. Her skin was paled, but she bore the bruise washed features of a zealot of the one, true king... the darkened bruising falling from her lower lids down her cheeks like the faint tracings of a beating long passed. Even her dreadcharger seemingly lacked, small, skeletal, it did not have the glow and breadth of power around it that the newer ones had. Its hooves were planted firmly on the ground, and its eye sockets were empty.

"Which necropolis is this?" Declan asked, and she craned her neck to stare up at it.

"Acherus. Mograine's." Her voice was level, but he knew the two words displeased her. Whatever it was in her soul that she used to judge the young had also found Darion Mograine lacking. The fact that one of the most powerful weapons in existence apparently did not share her view did not bother her one little bit. "Why the master has seen fit to send me here, with him, I cannot say."

"Mograine is here?" Definitely more than the usual annual raid...

She raised a pale brow, her gaze fastening upon him. "Mograine is here." She affirmed slowly. "The master is here."

The master. Here. Declan would never doubt Besseth's word, if she said that the King was here, then he was. "We will feast upon the flesh of the living." She continued, contentment dripping from the syllables. "Before us..." She pointed unerringly between the dreadcharger's horns, southeast, "New Avalon, and Tyr's Hand. They shall pay for their impertinence, their hubris, in daring to strike against us."

"As you will." He breathed, and she nodded slowly.


	2. Chapter 2

Light's Hope Chapel, Northern Lordaeron.

"There's a necropolis north of New Avalon."

Tibault sighed, nodded. Yes, once again, it came. This time, however, it came in his back yard... He paused. That made it unusual. "Is he coming against the Dawn?"

"Seems to be coming against the Scarlet Crusade more." The scout frowned, "This seems to be a little more than usual. They are building a solid ground presence. A toehold, readied to strike against New Avalon."

Tibault sighed in disgust. That was a no win situation, and his heart cried out against it. "The Crusade's civilians, their protectorate..." New Avalon was one of the last bastions of the Crusade's power base left upon Azeroth. That was not his concern, what was of his concern was the large concentration of non combatants they supported there. More innocents placed before the Scourge...

"Is open to Scourge attack." June confirmed, and he frowned.

"And they will not accept our aid."

"Never."

Of course not. They'd keep their families, their civilians, in the path of the Scourge rather than have faith in the Argent Dawn's ability and desire to help. And they were so close. Such a crime. "Send word to Tirion." He stated slowly. The Scourge rested just beyond Light's Hope. That could not be a good thing, any way it was looked at. "Let him know this may be a little bit more than the usual. Let him know we have Scourge ground units down."

Besseth, Champion of the one True King, ignored the flurry around her. They were not her young ones, except for Declan. He was hers, and special for it.

It had been ages since she'd set foot anywhere near here... years since she'd been called to follow the master. Then he had not been the king, but rather the prince. Arthas. There really was no reason for her to be here, she knew the drill by now, but he desired her presence here, so here she was. Maybe he thought there were young ones to be reaped in the cradle of the Scarlet Crusade. Maybe he was just bored, and wanted to play. It was not her place to truly wonder.

"Lady Besseth."

"Highlord Mograine." She couldn't put her finger on just why the man irked her, but he certainly did. She glanced over at him, studiously ignoring the hilt visible over his shoulder. The man bore Ashbringer, that should be enough. It wasn't. She always had the nearly overwhelming urge to brick him into a corner somewhere and forget about him. Such a feeling was unseemly for what she was, but it lurked in the dark corners of her soul.

"Freed from Icecrown?" He inquired, "To flood the living?"

She nodded slowly. That was exactly the feeling she got from the master... She was to come here to New Avalon to gorge on its population. After all, she had stood against the Scarlet Crusade incursion on Icecrown. Should she not be one of the ones sent to rout them on their own lands? It sounded like a fine idea, except that it made little sense. Once, she had been one of the master's trusted guards, one of the first... Raised by him, when he was still only a death knight, only Prince Arthas. She paled in comparison to those around her, raised by the grand power that was the Lich King. She had never been taught, as she taught those she raised to serve him. She had been raised. And released to commit carnage. It had worked...then...in those chaotic first days. None of them had truly comprehended what they were doing. Now they had perfected the art of creation, and in a truly ironic twist, Besseth was denied the art she practiced. She would never be as fine as those she raised imbued with the Lich King's power, never be as fine as those she trained. "I stood against them when they landed upon our shores."

"Of course you did, Besseth. And it is right and true that you be sent forwards to bring the injury back to them. You spend too much time cloistered in Icecrown. The living lands should fear your name with the same zealous panic that they know our other Champions' names. Give them that fear. Feast upon the living. Be released upon these lands once again..."

"I hardly look the sort to invoke zealous panic." She noted drily, and he glanced down at her, his eyes leaving his forces gathering.

"Much of it is as you wish. The master would have placed you in better armor years ago if you only desired it... But you have not. And, the day you die in his service, Besseth, you will be risen truly amongst us. You know that as well as I do, but you cling to your life stubbornly. But you cannot live forever..." He glanced back down the valley, towards where she knew the Crusade waited. "Perhaps the Crusade will drop Besseth, Champion of the One True King, here, so close to her birthplace, well within the grasp of that King, a fingertips' reach, while she is watched over by his Valkyrs?"

I don't want to die. That had always been the case. Through it all, Besseth had survived. In spite of everything, she just simply did not wish to die. He was correct, however. The moment she actually died, she would be risen to stand again, imbued with the master's full power. Second string no longer... As the Scourge had bettered themselves in the past eight years, the Crusade were no longer the same force she'd met before. They had paladins more than equal to the task of dragging her down, here, on her birthlands. Full circle... Surely she hadn't been sent from Icecrown just to die here? To die amongst those who would see her safely returned to the master, intact, and ready to rise... On the first real push of the Scourge into Azeroth since the Scourging of Lordaeron...

"Damnation." She muttered under her breath, and Mograine chuckled.

Hold at Light's Hope. The orders made perfect sense, but Tibault still cursed them. Brace for the Scourge here, on holy ground, and hold them back, well on the lands that they'd already destroyed. Sacrifice the Crusade's settlement of New Avalon as being unreachable from

them, and wait for the Scourge to blunt its attack on the military hold of Tyr's Hand. The Dawn would then enter the fray. It made tactical sense, and was truly their only option. He understood that. It didn't mean he would have to like it. To get from where they were to aid New Avalon would require going through Tyr's Hand, and the Crusade would view them as much of as a threat as they viewed the Scourge. They simply did not have the time to prepare for the naval assault which would come from going the long way around to flank New Avalon. He didn't need to see Tirion's face to know that the elder felt the same way.

"We ready to hold here." Tirion agreed slowly. "In case this is not just another feint. Call up the forces we have, bring them here."

Besseth had forgotten. She had forgotten the glory, the rush, of riding for the master. The simple joy in obliterating the living. She had forgotten the power. She would ride the living, those damned Crusaders, into the dust of their fields and salt their corpses where they lay. She would feed until the blue glow of her axe was obliterated by crimson blood, until the blue and white tatters of her cloak wicked the same crimson to her knees. She'd done it before, she could, would, do it again. The sinking idea that she had been brought here for a respectable death was gone, fled. If that were truly so, then they'd have to kill her first, and that was not going to be an easy task. The master had brought the best, gutted Naxxramas for the finest, most loyal of his followers. It was only fitting that she be here, at the head of the assault. "Kill them all!" She hissed, feeling the sudden weight of Declan's gaze upon her. This was the first time he'd truly stood beside her, and her only regret was that the others did not. If she died, so be it. The One True King owned her, and would raise her.

And it was truly glorious. If it were indeed meant to be her demise, then it failed, for she emerged from the assaults untouched, protected by Mograine and Declan. New Avalon was a picnic, a feast, and Tyr's Hand whetted her blade and her appetites. It was easy to forget how small she was, how insignificant, when draped in the death of others. "Where now?" She demanded, breathlessly, and Mograine laughed deeply, clapping her shoulder joyfully. Surely this wasn't it. Surely there was more. This wasn't just another feint... this was serious. They had forces on the ground, surely they didn't stop here?

"It is good to see you embrace your nature, Besseth. And... You have been chosen to accompany me to Light's Hope. We hit the Dawn there."

Light's Hope. Besseth did not bother to rein back the voracious grin that crossed her face. The Argent Dawn... the last cohesive vestiges of the Silver Hand... manned Light's Hope. The joy of assaulting there, rubbing those noses... It was a much more visceral response than even attacking New Avalon. It would be the same joy as the ride to assault Uther, a continuation of the Purge. And the Purge had been a wondrous time indeed. "Who leads the Dawn?" She asked, and Mograine sighed.

"Fordring has returned to lead the Dawn. He hid from us once before, and will probably hide again. But eventually, there will be nothing for him to hide behind, and we will tear him to shreds."

"Fordring is an old man."

"You are not entirely young yourself, Besseth."

No. That was so. The problem with refusing to die was that living brought aging. "Thank you for that oh, so astute realization, Highlord." She stated slowly, "But Fordring is still old enough to be my father. Do not count me as the same because we both still breathe." Of course, Mograine would obviously prefer it if she did not. He'd made that abundantly clear. "If the King truly wanted me dead, Mograine, he knows where to find me. I could not, would not, stand against him."

"And on some level, you would hold it against him. He'll give you a glorious death against his enemies, Besseth, and remain blameless. You're very stubborn."

She glared at him, but he appeared to be immune to her anger. Of course she was stubborn. Had she not continued through a time when most did not come out the other side? She was a relic from a time when those brought to his service were considered little more than expendable. Now they had necropoli, valkyr, Northrend, Icecrown... a vast reservoir of power. When they had scourged Lordaeron, they'd had little of that.

"I was under the impression that my value was that stubbornness, Mograine. I have little else in my favor."

He hissed, and she blinked at him. She'd managed to get under his skin somehow with that comment. "Little fool." He snarled and she took stock of her surroundings. No place to run, no place to hide... They'd taken care of that so that the population of New Avalon could not take advantage of it. This was the Highlord, he who wielded Ashbringer... The words she had used about the master could easily apply to him as well. He knew where she was. She could not hope to stand against him. She was literally within his grasp. "Rise to take your place amongst his Champions, Besseth! Release all of this..." He derisively motioned in her direction, "Before something terrible happens. Do you honestly wish to die of age? To just...fade... away?"

I don't want to die. It was truly that simple. Somehow, in spite of it all, that remained true. She was a hypocrite true, how many had she killed? How many had she risen? In the beginning, so many, until she had been allowed to pick and choose the worthy.

"Perhaps Light's Hope will give you what you wish, Mograine. Perhaps I'll lie down and die there..." She managed to not let the words die off too abruptly when he fastened glowing blue eyes on her.

"Perhaps, Besseth. Perhaps." He growled, riding away.

"That...went badly." Besseth was hardly surprised at the voice. Declan was sneaky. She'd always known it, and if he felt Mograine was a threat, he'd be in the vicinity. What he thought he was capable of doing if the Highlord decided to take matters into his own hands, she wasn't certain, but he'd still be close. "You feel you have been sent here to die well?"

Unfortunately, that was exactly why she was beginning to feel she was here, in Lordaeron, and not safely ensconced at Icecrown. "That possibility exists, Declan. But it is neither here nor there..."

He raised a regal brow, staring at her, and she shrugged. "Here is where the master has called me to be, and here I will stay."

"As you say, my Mistress." His voice was melodic, his bearing kingly. It was almost a shame that he was dead. Almost a shame that life had chased away those urges from her. "And you go forth to Light's Hope to stand beside the Highlord during its assault. A fine day, indeed... Nothing is sweeter than the death's blood of a paladin, I envy you."

"You do not come?"

"No. I do not."

Besseth chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her cheeks, too distant to consider how childish the gesture had always made her look. Declan was not going into Light's Hope. He knew, on some level, that she did not wish to die. He could be trusted to intervene, if he was close enough, and now, she knew he was not going to be. "Damnation." She hissed, and he gave her a vaguely sympathetic look.

"You are on your own, my Mistress." He noted, "May the King and his valkyr watch over you."

That was precisely what she feared.


	3. Chapter 3

Tibault could feel them coming. They were a rising wait in the thick, orange air. A chill when there was no breeze. He was always shocked, at this moment, how fear fled him. He felt nothing more than calm resignation when the first banners came into sight. "Light watch over us." He breathed, tightening his grasp on his warhammer.

He was accustomed to the undead, they were those he was called to defend against most often, but these were different. He was used to the mindless swarms, but these were hardly mindless. And the death knights, champions of Arthas, were a blur of blackness before him, except for one...

It was small, and his first thought was that it was a child. He reached out towards it, feeling, and was stunned. No child, that was a smallish woman, dwarfed beside the massive male death knight she rode with. And she lived...still. She was ill, her life flowed from her like blood from an unstaunched wound, but in spite of it all, she lived.

"Kill them all!" Besseth snarled, feeling her dreadcharger pick up speed. Now was not the time to worry about why she was here, now was the time to face this. She had begun the charge at Mograine's side, but his greater combat presence pushed him deeply into the defenders of Light's Hope, while she bogged down quickly, held at bay by a large paladin who seemed to have found his favored target of the day. They had no chance; surely the fools had to know that? Sheer numbers alone meant that the Scourge would hold the field.

"Fordring."

She snapped her head around to the pull of the voice, catching sight of him across the field. So far away, moving straight for... Mograine. Her first thought was relief, of them all; he stood the best chance...

Agony ripped through her, she staggered, wavering as she tried to maintain her footing. The paladin was coming in fast, sensing her weakness, and she clumsily blocked his next attack. Something was terribly wrong, and if he would just stop pounding at her for a moment, she could understand what it was...

"No! The sword! It will not obey me...!"

And understanding dawned upon Besseth. Even corrupted, Ashbringer would not bolster Mograine through an attack on Tirion Fordring. The agony was from Tirion, as he consecrated the land around him... catching her within it. She made the split second decision to quit the field, dragging her stare from the paladin and looking for an escape route. This was not right...

"You're not going anywhere, small one." The paladin growled, knocking her backwards with a great sweep of his arm, not farther away from the pain, but aimed squarely at the oncoming Tirion.

Let me go. I want to go home...

"Stand down!"

For a long moment, Besseth thought the order had come from the paladin...no...Tirion... no... Mograine. Treasonous bastard... Rage helped push away the pain, and she surged back to her feet. "Mograine! You...!" Another blow struck and she bit down on her tongue, words lost. Suddenly death in the King's grasp sounded very much preferable to this.

"It's over, little one." That damnable paladin was still coming on strong. "Stand down!"

No. She would not. She could not. She felt so wobbly, weak... She looked down, stunned. Blood. Hers. She died here... in the midst of this debacle...this... defeat. Not a valkyr in sight. On holy ground. It was over. All this time, everything that she had been through, and she bled to death a mere twenty miles from her birthplace. It was not fair... She was going to die listening to Mograine's treachery, his weakness, sniveling before Tirion. Let me die as I have lived. A true servant of the only True King. I need no Valkyr. I don't need to die in his grasp. Just let me die in a way they'll be proud of.

The paladin stood over her, blocking her view as she sank to the orange ground. "Do you give?" He demanded.

No. Besseth did not...she belonged to the true king... she died as a favored servant... The pain ebbed suddenly and she was able to open her eyes. He was here. He had come. She did die in his grasp; she could feel his presence as he appeared. "Thank you." She breathed, and she could feel the paladin's confusion, until he felt the master as well, spinning away from her to face him.

She staggered back to her feet, forgotten by the paladin. She contemplated attacking him, and indeed, her grip on the axe strengthened, until she grasped the lengths of Mograine's betrayal. The Highlord, bearing Ashbringer, powered himself into an attack...not against Tirion, not against the nearest paladin to him...but against Arthas. She was too stunned to move, the words she wanted to scream dead in her throat. She did not come here for a good death; she came here to witness this?

The King watched Mograine come, and with the power and decisiveness she was familiar with, batted him away as if the traitor was nothing. A predatory grin crossed Besseth's face, Mograine was finally gone. Nothing could resurrect his standing now, even if that strike had not destroyed him.

Tirion shouted, his voice a jumble in her mind. He didn't matter. All that mattered was that Arthas was here. They'd hold the field. She'd die correctly. This was still salvageable... She lifted the axe in the air, and the paladin spun, catching her squarely under her armpit. Besseth Southcross, Champion of the Scourge, dropped like a rock.

"What have you there, Tibault?" Tirion asked, a thin edge of exhaustion under his voice. The elder paladin sat beside Tibault, his gray eyes kind and curious, watching Tibault as he returned to the woman's side and knelt there.

"Little scourgeling." Tibault sighed, resting a hand where he had struck her. She'd been badly injured before that, and he grimaced slightly when he sensed the injury. "Cannon fodder, for she was not up to this task."

Tirion frowned, his eyes on the woman's still form. "She lives." He marveled, and Tibault nodded. "Can she be healed?"

"Much of her injury and illness is old. She's plagued."

"Of course she's plagued." Tirion chuckled, and Tibault nodded. That was, indeed, an of course. She had been for a long time, and there were old injuries and old illnesses that had nothing to do with her exposure to the plague. "Can we get her back up?"

"Probably." The injuries inflicted today were fairly straightforward. "She did not capitulate when the others did. She was already injured by then, she may have missed the call to." Or she had refused to, Tibault wasn't certain. He removed her helm, wishing he could gaze upon her with the same calm acceptance that Tirion gave her. "She's so..."

Tirion sighed, glancing around the carnage. "Small." He breathed, and Tibault nodded, trying the first tentative healing spell on her. She shuddered, and cried out in her unconsciousness, but did not waken. He could feel her body react as it should, the bleeding wane and the bones began to knit.

"Tibault, none of the knights here were cannon fodder. They were all something a cut above... But we give her as much of a chance to stand down as we gave her brethren. More, for she lives. She has not had that part of her soul destroyed. They can be rescued, she can be redeemed." The greatest paladin alive stretched out his hand and ran his fingertips down the woman's ashen pale hair. "A chance, Tibault." He breathed, standing and moving away. Tibault only nodded, gathering his strength to continue the healing.

Many had left to go to Light's Hope, and Declan was dismayed when few returned. "What happened?" He demanded, and the knight he questioned gave him a stunned stare in response.

"The Highlord has betrayed us." He muttered. "He attacked the King. He and those he took with him. They've betrayed us. They're gone. They surrendered...to Tirion, after he attacked the King..."

"Besseth?" Declan snarled, grabbing the man's shoulder. This was not how this was supposed to have gone. It was painful, but he understood that Besseth needed to die. She was denied the glory of her service by clinging to her life. Death was the crucible that they all had to go through.

"Besseth...? Oh, yes. Besseth. I believe she fell in battle, before Mograine betrayed us."

Declan glared impotently forward, his mind seething. She had not betrayed the true King. She had died, at Light's Hope, exactly as she was supposed to have, and then Mograine had to go and mess it up. "And we have not recovered her?" He demanded, and the knight hissed in comprehension.

"Besseth was down. She did not..."

"Did not, indeed. Damn you, Mograine!" It was time to gather the others. Their mother needed to be recovered.

"Wake up, small one."

Pain greeted Besseth when she woke again, and she came to struggling against it. "Hush..." The voice breathed, and she opened her eyes to peer at him.

Damnable paladin. There. Close enough to reach out and poke his eyes out. If she could manage to move, she might have considered it. "Where...am I?" Something had gone truly bad. Wrong.

"You're in the infirmary at Light's Hope. Recovering well."

There was a hope in that. She had not died out of the King's grasp...

"No, my Champion. You live in the grasp of the Argent Crusade."

There was an ugly truth, but still doable. She still heard the King, felt him, and his words were not bitter in rage. All she had to do was make it back to him... back to their forces. How hard could that be?

"Fordring will call for your capitulation, your oath the same as the others he has spared this day."

Besseth considered that idea. Obviously that was bad... There must be a way around it.

"You'll give it to him."

What? That was one she didn't see coming. But there was no questioning, or bargaining with, the true king. His word was law, and she had it. "Now, little one. I've answered your first question. My turn." There was steel under the paladin's voice, and she stared at him. He was a big man, but then, she'd never seen a small paladin. Not a youngling...fairly close to her in age. Old enough have the shine worn off to expose the glow. "Your name."

"Besseth Southcross."

"Well, Besseth Southcross. Do you know who this is?"

She turned her head. She was placed in the corner of what she would guess was the actual chapel, a screen separating her from the rest of the building. She had missed the man sitting on her other side, half obscured by the screen. "Tirion Fordring." She forced the name through her lips, already aware there would be no rescue from this.

"I am, yes. You've had a hard day of it, I'd say. How do you feel?"

"Terrible." She granted truthfully, and he chuckled, turning to gaze at her. "I am held by the Argent Crusade?" That was equally as terrible as she felt. They were not known to hold members of the Scourge. They merely destroyed them, and she was more than a little confused over why she still lived. Torture was not a leaning commonly linked to the Argents, but war was war, and Besseth understood that.

"Your commander on the field surrendered himself and those forces under his command. You were in too frail a condition to surrender for yourself, or to refuse that surrender. We give you the benefit of the doubt. Do you stand down, Besseth Southcross? Do you surrender to me?"

No... Her heart whispered, but it was blotted out by the master's will.

"I...do." She stated. She'd worry about the how and why later. "Where are the others?" She didn't sense their proximity. She felt alone, abandoned, here in this home of the enemy.

"They go to take Acherus from the Lich King..."

What? That was unacceptable. Surely the King knew, understood, this treachery. She had not told him, but she had slept. But the defenders of Acherus must have... "What have you done to me?" She felt beyond terrible. She had not felt this wrong in years, trembling and small. She had never been truly glorious, but she'd been capable of putting her fledges squarely in their place, at least until they were ready to be released into his service. Now she felt as if a half grown child could knock her over.

"Healing you has been a difficult endeavor." The other, unnamed, paladin stated. "You are in very poor health. The Lich King's power within you probably masked it until now, but you are very ill and have been for a long while. We'll do our best to help you recover."

No. Besseth did not want to be that ever again. She wished only to serve the one true king, to be one of his Champions, to raise young knights to be proud of. She didn't want this. This was a hundred times more horrifying than any fate she had ever considered since joining His service. The first hot tears welled in her eyes, and she fought them silently. There was no way she was going to give them the satisfaction of watching her weep like a baby.

"You are my Champion. Your service has always been above rebuke. When this is over, I will send your children forward to claim you back and you will return to us, unsullied. Shed your tears, Besseth. Know I still treasure you, but know you are where I need you. Those still mine who are currently with the traitor, Mograine, will never be able to blend amongst the living. They will always be watched, always be doubted. You will not."

Tibault frowned when the woman curled up and began to cry. She was so small, so fragile, and now so distressed that, in spite of what he knew she was, she made his heart ache. If she had been well tended as a servant of the Lich King, she'd be more than skin and bones. She'd be more than a bundle of stinking, battered armor and illness. He comprehended a plague bringer, those infected only to spread the disease, but she was not one. She seemed quite short changed in power, gear and ability... except that she'd been quite adept at fighting him, until Tirion had arrived on the field. She was an enigma he didn't understand, and by the expression on Tirion's face, the new Highlord did not either. "What do we do with her now?" He asked, and Tirion snorted.

"She'll need weeks of recuperation before she's well enough to do anything at all. We send her home, Tibault. Far from the Lich King's grasp, and we aid in her recovery. She lives, still. She may be brought back from this. Carry her from here, take her to the Lodge. See what needs to be done with her; we don't have the ability to care for her here as she needs."

Tibault nodded, gathering her up in his arms and striding from the tiny chapel. He was not certain why he'd been designated keeper and protector of the small scourgeling, but he apparently had been. She was limp in his grasp, although he knew she was still conscious, still very much awake. She also stank like a slaughterhouse on a summer day, and he sighed. That was more than the reek of combat, that was a living being kept surrounded by the rotting dead for a great period of time.


	4. Chapter 4

He paused to let their injured use the portal back before he stepped through it himself, appearing in the courtyard of his lodge in Stormwind. The woman flinched as if she'd been struck, the first sign of anything but acceptance to her fate. "Tibault!"

"Jenimue." There was concern etched deeply on his friend's face, as her eyes coasted over him. He gave her a lopsided grin to show he was uninjured, and her expression lightened immediately, her eyes drawn to the limp burden he carried. He was beyond happy to see her... the woman would need to be peeled from this armor, bathed, examined. Little of it sounded like a chore he wished to attempt alone.

"What is that?" She demanded, craning to try and get a good look. The woman had her face turned securely into the folds of his cloak, denying that good look, and Jen raised concerned eyes to him.

"Prisoner of war. She has stood down, and Lord Tirion has accepted her surrender... personally. We've held Light's Hope against the Scourge onslaught, so far. The little one here rode with them; for all that she lives and breathes. She's badly off, however."

"This way." She gave the tiniest wrinkle of her nose. "We'll start with a bath and work from there..."

She led the way to an open room, a tub already filled with steaming water waiting. Tibault set the woman down, relieved when she stood on her own, and looked around the room, blinking. Jen grimaced slightly when she got her first good look at the woman, and indeed, it was the first truly good look he'd managed to get as well. She had pale, ashen blonde hair, nearly colorless. Pale, pale skin stretched over high cheekbones. Her eyes were sunken into their bruised sockets, but in spite of it all, he could sense that this had, at one time, been a lovely woman. She did not wear the ebon armor of her compatriots, but a mismatched set that had probably started out its career as a young paladin's harness. Her cloak was a tattered banner of Lordaeron, most of the blazon obscured by filth, held around her by a shadowed chain of barbs. She glanced at the bathtub, then warily at him. "You intend to stay?" She demanded, and he stared back. There was no way he was going to leave Jen alone with this one, even if she did appear to be on the verge of death. She'd looked that way going into Light's Hope, and had given him one hell of a fight then.

"I most certainly do."

"And you intend to have me bathed?" She did not try to obscure the revulsion in her voice, and he sighed.

"You're filthy. Yes, we intend to bathe you..."

"Tib. I think she may be a little put off that you intend to be here. You are, after all, male..." Jen giggled, and the woman glared at her. Her outraged stare widened to encompass Tibault, and he realized that, in spite of the annoying giggle, Jen had grasped the problem.

"You don't want me here?"

"I most certainly do not." Her voice was deep, rather harsh, but she had a compelling tone. "I've no wish to show myself to a living man." Disgust colored her voice, and he stared at her.

"You'd rather a dead one?" He asked, and she nodded. "Why?" He demanded, stunned, and she stared calmly back at him, the sunlight gilding her hair.

"Because the dead have few urges in that manner."

"Urges." She was so small, so defiant, so serious... He tried to fight the chuckle, and the words that came after that word, but it was impossible. "Little one, I cannot tell you how unappealing I find a scrawny, filthy, plague ridden scourgeling like yourself. Now, drop the armor."

She sighed, but moved to unbuckle her harness, dropping the pieces to the floor. It was worse than he'd first thought; he realized when she was done. She was almost cadaverously thin, her ribs blatantly obvious under her skin. She was bruised, but that was undoubtedly his fault, filthy, scarred. "So this is the way that the Lich King cares for his servants." He sighed, shaking his head. Her responding look was desperate and confused, she obviously had no answer for that either. "In." He motioned at the tub and she climbed in, allowing a stunned, silent Jen to scrub her clean.

"What do you mean; we will not be going after Besseth?" Declan snarled. His twinned brother, Diarmid, hissed beside him. "The nine of us stand ready..."

"I know you do. But this is the wish of the King. Besseth is to be left where she is."

"She's held by the Argent Crusade...!" This was intolerable. This was an abomination. Besseth had not stood down when Mograine had ordered it, that was consistent from every story he'd gleaned from those there. She'd been taken. She was theirs, and they wanted her back. "This is not what we were..." He stopped just short of using the word promised. Promise was a word for paladins, and the nine children of Besseth Southcross were hardly that. "We agreed to not become involved because she was supposed to die here, be raised as she should have been years ago. She was supposed to become one of us, truly. A Champion of the King. We're not asking for support, the nine of us can retrieve her, easily..."

"Still no." The lich before them whispered and he glared impotently.

"What good does it serve us to have her held by the Argents? She is not one of the traitors. She was not with Mograine. We brought her in from Icecrown for this." He seethed inwardly, but remained chilled and focused on the outside. If he had known this, he'd have killed her himself rather than let her fall to the Argent Crusade. She'd be angry at him for a long time. She'd hold it against him, possibly forever, but she'd still be theirs.

"The living will be accepted by the Argent Crusade easier than the undead. Besseth's less than noteworthy appearance will allow her to be absorbed much easier than those still bound to us who laid down their arms at Light's Hope."

True, but he still didn't like it. "We brought Besseth to Light's Hope to die because she was getting old. Planting her in the Crusade doesn't make her any less old. We'll lose her like this."

"It's too fine an opportunity, Declan. Besseth will be overlooked, as always." The lich sighed, its attention already moving away from the outraged nine death knights facing it.

Overlooked, as always. Declan gave his twin the exasperated stare he could not send at the lich. That was the entire point. Get Besseth killed. Raise her imbued with the full power of the King. Create the death knight he knew was there. If she managed to be as fine as she was while still living, still limping along with what little power she'd been given at her creation, what could she be now? A true Champion of the Scourge, worthy to be his mentor. Glory, incarnate. And once again, something stood in his way, but this time it was apparently the will of the King. His brother spat something truly crude in Thalassian, under his breath, and Declan nodded in agreement.

"I hear quite well, knights of my king." The lich chuckled, "And my command of Thalassian is strong. Such profanity is not becoming a Champion."

"The King wishes us to leave our mother in the hands of the Argent Crusaders, and does not expect some issue?" Sanity, and it came not from the twinned quel'dorei. Declan glanced over at the speaker, the sixth of the children. Raien was bulky, rolling in muscles, unbreakable... as calm as a boulder and as ungiving. "Declan is correct. Leaving Besseth with the Crusade runs us the risk of losing her. She is fragile without the gifts of the King, fragile in life. If she dies in the hands of the Crusaders, is laid to rest in consecrated ground, we have lost her. Such is not the right end for such a servant of the King... I will kill her myself before I allow that."

"The Crusade is filled with paladins. They will work to heal your mother, not kill her."

"We don't want her healed." The eighth of the children hissed, and Declan grimaced. Of course somebody had to go and say it aloud. Of course it had to be Alaroc, who would no more lie or dissemble as he would flee a field of combat. "She needs to die. But she needs to die well, and this does not qualify. Neither does dying of age, and the pox, as she was."

Declan studied the wall next to him with sudden, great interest. Damn orc. He'd drown a desert in the truth if given half a chance. Besseth's condition was common knowledge in the family, but it did not need to be aired quite so publicly.

"Besseth serves the King." The lich stated simply. "Besseth served the King before each and every single one of you did. She made you all to do the same. He believes she serves him best where she is right now. Her loyalty is noted. And her children's loyalty to her is also noted." It floated serenely to a great tome, chained to the floor, turning the thick pages in its hands. "And she stays where she is. Do not attempt to remove her." It paused, "However, your concerns about her safety and well being are well founded. If, indeed, Besseth was to lose her life in the hands of paladins, and be laid to rest by them, we would lose her. Keep an eye on her, keep her safe, and get her out of there if the worst happens."

Declan sent Alaroc a narrow eyed stare, and the orc nodded slowly. "As the King wills." He stated, turning and striding away. It was the best they were going to get, and Declan knew it. They had blessing to keep watch, and since Besseth was currently deep in Azeroth, they had blessing to keep at least one of them close to her at any given time. They'd have to be discreet, however...

"Raien." He stated, falling into step behind Alaroc. "How do you like...the south?" Besseth's children, just like the King's servants, came from everywhere. Declan and Diarmid were the eldest, quel'dorei, raised during the destruction of Quel'thalas and the Prince's push to Silvermoon. Of them all, Raien had the best chance of remaining close to her, and his temperament was most suited to the task.

"Send the human to Elwynn to keep an eye on Mom?"

"Makes more sense than sending the orc to Elwynn to keep an eye on Mom."

The orc in question glared back over his broad shoulder but said nothing. The logic was undeniable; he was not going to Elwynn to watch over Besseth. It would be difficult for Raien to manage, even being once human, and possessed of a remarkably even temper. "I'll want Khraben." Raien noted slowly, obviously considering his options, and Declan nodded in agreement, feeling his twin mirror the nod.

"Of course." He glanced at Khraben, and the third of Besseth's children slid closer, his eyes locked on Declan.

"I go to watch the mama." He breathed, "Yah. I go. The cattle will na see me, mon." The troll grinned, flashing a mouthful of tusks, and then vanished into the shadows.

"I will keep an eye on them, Declan." Ellorie, one of Besseth's two daughters, chuckled, moving past the cluster of males she called brothers. "On our mother as well. Bredit... let's go. We have things to do."

The other daughter moved closer, staring up at the grouping. "Aye, Lori. Things to do and little time to see them done in."

The bath, clothes, and a full platter of food. Besseth wanted little of it, but the male paladin stared daggers at her until she at least made a good show of picking at it. "You need to eat to regain your strength." He muttered, and she stared back. She did not need to eat this much. A full belly made her lethargic and slow to respond.

"You didn't seem to think I needed to be stronger at Light's Hope." She growled, and he raised brows at her. The giggling fool was long gone, and Besseth was happy to see her go... If living men were worrisome, then living women were irksome.

"You put up a fine fight there." He granted, his eyes never leaving her. "So, where are you from, Besseth?"

"Icecrown." That was probably not the answer he was looking for, but it was the truth. She stared back with the same unyielding focus that he used on her, reading him as voraciously as he read her. He was about her age, about a score and a half, his russet brown hair lightening at his temples. He had quizzical hazel blue eyes, and a face that had seen much. He was worthy, but she'd had experience trying to raise paladins. It was too much of a fuss, and it got entirely too messy.

He frowned at the single word, his eyes darkening. "Before Icecrown." He stated calmly, and she shrugged.

"Lordaeron."

"Hmmmm. So you were there during the scourging?"

Besseth diverted her attention to the meal, it seemed safer. She'd been there during the scourging because she had aided it. "I was there before the scourging. It was where I lived. Where I was born. Where I became one of the King's servants."

"By King I assume you mean Arthas, and not Terenas." He stared wistfully into his glass, and she nodded. She'd never had any reason to know Terenas, except that he was the King's father. He had died at the King's hand, mere days before she'd come into his service.

"Terenas was a little before my time."

"He was a good man, a good king." He gazed at her mournfully for a long moment, and she shrugged. As she'd said, Terenas was before her time, mourning a dead man was a waste of time, of effort. "When did you come to Arthas's service?"

"When he led the Scourge to our farm. He was still only the Prince then, and they found me there."

"You are one of Arthas's original death knights?" Horror and amazement colored his voice. They had been few then, still finding their feet beneath them.

"I am counted amongst the second group." She murmured. She had not been one of the absolute first, those had come from Arthas's original men at arms, and Besseth had not been one. But what she was still made her one of the few, rare survivors of a time lost in memory. Declan and Diarmid, her firstborns, were older in service than the vast majority of the True King's servants. She was barely weeks older than they, and decades younger. Sometimes she wondered if the pair had ever contemplated that... "Raised from the scourging of Lordaeron."

"So you have been this for eight years." He sighed, "Lost to the Light."

Besseth grimaced, she'd always known paladins to be fools, but now she was going to be forced to listen to them. There had been precious little Light in her life before the Scourging. The King had brought her closer to that than any paladin could hope to, snatching her from hell and giving her the power to strike back. Only under his aegis had she felt safe enough to raise the young ones that life had denied her. And in repayment for that, she had produced nine of the greatest death knights the Scourge knew.

"Bah." She spat, glaring at him. She had stood down, yes, but that hardly made her a great follower of the Light. This one called her a prisoner of war, and that was correct. She would not raise a blade against him or the Argent Crusade until called upon to do so again by the King, but she was no traitor.

"You doubt that?" He asked warily.

"I was lost to the Light long before the Prince came for me, Tib. The Light is a luxury for fine young ones with food on the table, wood in the stove and wool on their backs. The rest of us find our way in the darkness."

She rested her forehead against the palm of her head, exhausted. Without the King's strength to gird her, bolster her, she felt pathetically weak. At least the children were not here to view this.

"Hmmm." She could sense his disagreement, but he had the common grace to not pursue it...yet. "Be that as it may, you need to sleep. We can agree to disagree for now." He moved to pick her up, and she considered putting up a struggle, but that seemed like a great deal of work for little reward. She was asleep well before he made it to his rooms and planted her in the extra bed he kept in his office. He tucked her in, and went in search of clothing to replace the rotting tatters she was wearing under her armor. With Jen's aid, he gathered a pile of colorful, pretty dresses, as far from the dull, darkness worn by the few servants of the Scourge who bothered to dress as he could manage.


	5. Chapter 5

Besseth woke, drifting with the feeling that she'd been asleep for a very long time. Her first annoyed thought was that the child would be waiting, and by sleeping in, she had exhibited weakness before them. No. She had no child in training now. She was alone. Alone meant she had no responsibilities other than to find another child, and bring it into training.

The room was dark, but that was the usual for Besseth's quarters. The muted clash of sword upon sword, upon shield, was also usual. The cheerful voices and laughter were not, and she peeled open a wary eye. Her ceiling was high reaching, dark, carved with bones and skulls, geists nesting in the upper reaches. This ceiling was not nearly as high, white washed plaster and broad walnut beams.

Stormwind. Yesterday's events returned like a flash and she sat bolt upright, instantly regretting the speed. She ached from her toes to her nose, livid with bruises. Her full meal set uneasily in her stomach, and her head pounded.

"Small one." His voice was a whisper in the darkness and she hissed. "I know, I feel it from you." He continued, moving warily closer. "Here, let me."

His hand was blessedly cooler than her forehead, and he supported her weight against his side as he sat beside her on the bed. He murmured a prayer, and she felt most of her discomfort wane. "Better?"

"Yes."

"Good. Ready for...lunch?"

She sighed in disgust. Was food really all he thought about? "What happened to breakfast?" She asked jokingly, and he chuckled.

"You slept right through it. You slept through morning drills, as well. It's lunch time. Here, I brought you some clothes. Some fresh air will do you well... I'll be in that room there waiting."

She felt him motion towards a vaguely darker point on the farther wall. He released her, and she heard his steps move in that direction, and then there was light when he opened the door. That room was bright, while this one was gloomy. He closed the door behind him, leaving her alone again.

Clothes. She sighed, regarding the pile left obviously out on the chest at the foot of the small bed. She picked up the uppermost garment, holding it to herself in disgust. She went into the field in her gear, the same as she'd worn so long ago, the clothing she'd had as a beast of burden and whore, the armor lifted from a corpse, and the banner, a mark of favor from the Prince himself, taken from his father's throne room. She trained her little ones wearing padded leather. And she taught her little ones wearing plain black linen. These were pretty, bright, colorful, an obvious step away from what he must know she was used to. "Damnable paladin." She cursed, already aware she would not find the clothes she'd had yesterday. The loss of the banner sickened her, and the loss of her clothes annoyed her. She chose the least flamboyant of the dresses, tossing the rich reddish brown on and cinching it before she hit the door. It was a bedroom, while the one she'd been in was either a library or office, and the paladin waited patiently, staring out the window into the brightness.

"Where are my clothes?" She demanded, and he glanced at her.

"We decided to burn your haven for lice." He stated evenly, his eyes level on her. About as she feared... they had been close to a total loss when she'd recovered them from the bottom of her chest days ago.

"And my cloak?"

"The desecrated banner of Lordaeron?"

"Yes." Surely they hadn't burned that? It was too precious to lose like this...

"Tirion has it, along with your rune weapon, and the saronite chain you wore. You had precious little of value to be given into his keeping. He judged the banner as one of them...why, I am not certain..."

"The Prince gave me that with his own hands..." She whispered through lips gone numb. It had not been burned. It still existed. She knew the rune weapon was safe; its loss would have been immediately obvious. "A trophy. A mark of his favor."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I can understand why you'd be attached to such an item, then." He finally granted, looking her over. "Good. You're ready for lunch."

He led her out of the rooms, and she flinched. So many paladins and priests. They were everywhere. The day was so bright it hurt her eyes, and so many watched her out of the corner of their eyes. The bolder of them just watched her, measuring, and she felt very small and very exposed. I want to go home. Icecrown was safe. Icecrown was where she belonged. This was not it. She wanted her rooms, her library, and her children. All were taken away from her.

"How fares your foundling?" Tirion inquired, and Tibault frowned. She'd be easier to handle if she spat poison and rage, as many others who had shunned the Light did. He had difficulty facing her matter of fact acceptance of that loss.

"She sleeps, mostly. Eats when I pin her down long enough to get food in her. Watches me like she thinks I'm demented, amusing, or both. I've dealt with servants of the scourge before, and they're not like this. There's little rage, little hate, for all that she admits being with the Lich King from the beginning..."

"I've made some inquiries, from our archivists and members of the Kirin Tor. They have no information on her whatsoever, assuming that the name she gave us is correct. However, Mograine was willing to give me what he knows."

"Oh?" The woman had probably lied, to make herself seem more important. One of those risen during the Scourging of Lordaeron, indeed. Tibault sighed, glancing around Tirion's office. He hated the political playings, the deceptions and outright lies he was surrounded by.

"Besseth Southcross. Mograine believes she's in her early thirties. Went into Arthas's service during the Scourging, she's apparently from the area not far from Light's Hope. This would make her one of the elder of his remaining death knights, but much weaker than those he called after he became the Lich King. She normally resides in Icecrown, had not been sent away from since the Scarlet Crusade navy landed at Northrend. Her gift is an uncanny ability to sense and train the most worthy death knight candidates; she has produced nine, which Mograine refers to as the nine children of Besseth. He believes they may pose a problem to us if we keep her. She was sent away from Icecrown to die, either on the fields of New Avalon or at Light's Hope."

"So this is how the Lich King repays eight years of service." So cold. So callous. Done, used up, now go to this and die...

"Yes, Tibault." There was an edge under Tirion's voice he didn't quite care for. "This is how the Lich King repays eight years of devoted service. As long as Besseth lives she is aging, slowing. She cannot manifest his power to her utmost ability. She is weak and small compared to those who came later, especially in comparison to her own children. The plan was to repay this service by giving her a fine death, one to be proud of, and then raising her on the field of combat. Raised by Arthas, the Lich King, personally, imbued fully with his power. Mograine knew the plan. Apparently the child of hers who accompanied Acherus knew the plan. She may have known the plan. It's twisted, but there is an honest value placed upon this. Do not discount the loyalty she may feel to her master because he tried to get her killed here. She stood down, she capitulated, but unlike Mograine's knights, she has not sworn to aid us. She is still a prisoner of war."

Tibault frowned. That meant that either she was not lying, and she really was one of Arthas's death knights from the original scourging of Lordaeron, or that Mograine was lying for her. "They want her dead." He noted slowly, and Tirion nodded. "The main reason why she is redeemable is that she still lives, and the Scourge wants her dead. Nine of the best of the Lich King's death knights wish her dead as well, we can guess?" That opened up so many troubles...

"They'll want her dead in a way and a place they can control, Tibault. They put enough thought and care into it to see it this far. They'll be patient, but yes, that's a probability. Worst thing that can happen for them is if she dies and we control her body."

"She's a living being. A citizen of Lordaeron, who fell during the worst of times. She would deserve a burial in consecrated ground; she would deserve peace, not to be raised."

"And, to those nine children, she deserves nothing less than to be raised by Arthas himself. They would see what they're trying to achieve as what is best for her. Each of us believes we're doing what's best, Tibault. That's what makes it so difficult to argue against. We can't tell this Besseth that she is not valued by the Scourge...everything that Mograine told me lets me know such is not so. She must know that."

Tibault leaned back, staring at the ceiling of Tirion's office. So damned difficult. Why did it have to be so? It should be obvious. The scourge was bad. Evil. They should not be a viable option for any sane person to want to return to, but then, she probably was not remotely sane. How could she be? Eight years, starting with the death of all around her, and it only worsened from there.

"She dislikes paladins. They make her nervous."

"Imagine that."

"She doesn't eat when she's nervous. She doesn't sleep when she's nervous. She's a little high strung." A lot high strung might be a better statement. They'd had her for a week now, and she still jumped at shadows and stared at his brethren like she expected them to snap at any moment and kill her. "Tirion, I might not be the best one to see her through this. She makes no sense to me."

Tirion chuckled, and Tibault dropped his chin to regard the Highlord. "Do you hate her, Tibault? Want to see her dead?"

"Noooo." There really wasn't that much to hate about her. She cleaned up fairly decently, too thin for his tastes, and the taint of death which still clung to her bothered him, but overall she felt like just a woman. A sickly, frail woman. Nothing to fear, even though he had seen her fight, and certainly nothing to hate. She lacked the focus of rage, hatred and desire to do harm that he was accustomed to from the members of the Scourge. "She's rather...unremarkable." He finally settled on, and if anything, that made Tirion look all the more concerned. "What?"

"Rather unremarkable. She's an older death knight of the Lich King, and you describe her as rather unremarkable."

Tibault shrugged warily. She had never gained the additional height and heft he was used to seeing the worthy of the Scourge possess. Her eyes were merely brown. Certainly she had gained the typical paling of her hair, but that was a small feature... the zealot's markings on her face were the only true outwards hint of her nature.

"With some walnut husks and face powder, that woman would pass amongst us unnoted, Tibault. That worries me more than all of Mograine's knights combined."

"She stood down. We accepted that." Tibault knew exactly where the Highlord was coming from. She was a prisoner of war. She was now held by, and under the protection of, the Argent Crusade. "Nicely done?"

"Perhaps, if we're willing to go as far to say that Arthas deliberately lost at Light's Hope. I don't think he did, so I don't feel that Besseth was deliberately lost to us. Now that she has been, however, I don't believe he'll overlook the opportunity. She has not been screaming betrayal at the same volume as Mograine's have been."

No, she hadn't. She faced him with a solid resignation, much like he'd expect from any captured soldier who was not giving into panic. "She feels more inconvenienced than anything else." Tibault admitted. "We make her nervous, but not much else. She may also be bored, it's hard to tell."

"Bored." Tirion rolled the word over his tongue, frowning. "I must admit, Tibault, I never really gave much thought to what the Scourge who still possess a grasp of themselves do to keep themselves occupied. Obviously some of them are quite bright and have to get, as you put it, bored." He frowned, leaning back in his chair. "Bored could be even more dangerous with that one than nervous. And certainly, she's not going to calm surrounded by the Order. It's been awhile since you've gone home, Tibault..."

"You want me to take the death knight home with me? Highlord, there are children there. My parents. Civilians ill prepared to handle this..." He found safety in the fact that she was indeed surrounded by the Order. If any were prepared to bring her down, it would be them.

"Just a thought."


	6. Chapter 6

At least the paladin kept some books. His pickings were slim compared to her own personal library, those she had rescued, and gifts from the children...and pathetic compared to the great library of Icecrown that she had been given access to, but they were something to help pass the time. Idle was not completely unusual for her, but forcibly idle and unfocused was. She sighed, and glanced out of his window overlooking the lists. He was out there, she caught sight of him, but another caught her attention with greater interest. While Tibault was one of the worthy, he was adult, formed, oathbound and finished. That, on the other hand, was not.

She stood, narrowing her eyes in thought, feeling the immediate confirmation. That was one of the worthy, young, awkward, unformed, unmelded. Besseth's stomach clenched. No, not here, not now. There was no way she'd be allowed to touch that one. He was already counted among the young being trained as a paladin...

Tibault frowned when the death knight appeared in his doorway. She'd been hesitant, stubbornly resistant, to leaving his home without him pushing her to. Two weeks had changed her greatly; she'd gained a great deal of weight and had lost the odd pall of death which had clung to her. Even the zealot's marks were fading as her color returned. A few more weeks, and he thought she'd hit the edge of lovely he'd first seen the hints of.

Her gaze flicked between him and the list field, warily, and then she set her jaw and moved towards the field. He stared at her as she came up behind one of the younger recruits, her gaze solemn and thoughtful. He'd been watching the same young man, watching him struggle. He was taller, thinner, much more awkward than his classmates. The agreement was that, when he grew into his height, much of his problems would work their way out.

Besseth stopped immediately behind him, said something to him, and the young man nodded. Tibault's eyes widened when she wrapped her left arm around his belly, stepping in closely behind him, touching all of the way down her body. So much for fearing the living, for their urges... few things had more of those urges than a stripling lad... She grasped his sword hand with hers, adjusting his grip on the practice blade he bore. The lad had his head tilted, listening, considering her words. She had attracted the attention of the trainer, who was moving briskly down the line towards them, until Tibault waved him off. No...

The man glared, moving instead to Tibault's side. "Reason why you're going to let the death knight paw my student?" He demanded under his breath, and Tibault shrugged. "I want to see what she's doing." He muttered in response, and the trainer sighed. How much damage could she do anyway? Broad daylight, in front of a score of paladins...

"Go!" He heard her whisper sharply, and the boy stepped into the sword drill he'd been working on, the death knight one step to his side like a frail shadow. She matched him move for move, her hand open and pushing his attack further when it needed to be powered, gliding back when he needed to hold it. By the fifth time she'd run him through it, the young man's improvement was undeniable, and Tibault arched a brow at the trainer.

"She's good." He finally granted. "Unfortunately, she can't be trusted. I hear tell she trained death knights?"

"Some of the best, Mograine said." Tibault said, his eyes still planted on the pair. His first sense was to stop that, pull her away, but she seemed so suddenly alive, so suddenly there. Tirion had insinuated that boredom was a danger, and for the first time since she was well enough to be back on her feet, she didn't seem to be bored.

"Thank you, mistress." The lad grinned, until he caught his first good look at his benefactor. His expression stuttered slightly, but the smile never completely faded. "It seems so simple now."

"You are welcome." She smiled, the first time that Tibault had seen her do that. It transformed her face, and the young man's eyes widened. He blushed, glancing at the ground, and Tibault moved to rescue the pair of them.

"Nicely done, Anselm."

"Thank you, my lord." He nodded, and moved when Tibault gestured for him to rejoin his class, watched over by the ruffled instructor.

"I know, I know." Besseth growled, her voice still much deeper than most normal women's, even after she was obviously reverting back to her former appearance. "Leave the baby paladins be. I will lead them astray..." Her eyes followed the youth as he moved away.

"You trained for the Lich King." He finally felt the opening to breach the subject, and she raised level brown eyes to him.

"I did, yes. I've trained nine, one every year for the past eight years."

He frowned at the blatant error, and she chuckled. "The first were twins. I raised and trained them as they were born, had lived, and had died...together. Declan and Diarmid." Maternal pride crossed her features; her faint smile was almost smug. "I dislike seeing worthy young ones struggle without aid. That one would do better with a dedicated trainer..."

"We lack that luxury." He stated. Wouldn't they all do better with dedicated teachers? The concept of one trainer, one student, that she referred to stunned him. The Scourge had that luxury? What were they turning out in Icecrown?

"Hmmm." She breathed, "Truly sad. He will not shine like this. And then he will fail."

"You think you can do better?"

"I know I can do better. The lack of my library would be a hindrance, but I could still manage. I mother the finest, Tibault. That one would qualify, but he'll never have that chance."

"He's meant to be a paladin."

She shrugged, turning her back to him and facing his home again. "He's meant to be great." She whispered. "Paladin, death knight... none matters. If you do not fill that gap, if I do not fill that gap, then another will."

"You're a cynic."

"And you're a paladin. Means you lost touch with reality a long time ago, so blinded by the Light that you see nothing else." She moved away, back to the house, leaving him trailing in her dust. Again, if she spouted that in rage, in anger, he could face it. He had difficulty facing her calm, gentle resignation.

"What have we ever done to you?" He demanded, when she had crossed the dim threshold, and stood within the kitchen. "You are the one who aided in blighting Lordaeron. You are the one who did not stand for her. You are not even dead, so you have no excuse! You're not even dead, but your students are!" The dimness of the room was a relief from the bright glare of the list field, and he pulled the door closed behind him.

"Done to me?" She queried softly, "Nothing. Done for me? Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing." She sat at the trestle table, studying the scarred surface of the wood. "The world is full of nothings, Tibault. But you're so blinded by what you are that you never bother to see anything else for what it is. Certainly, I helped blight Lordaeron. I admit that freely. May Good King Terenas rot in hell, and the Silver Hand with him."

There was the edge of hatred she had been missing...it was still faint, and much less than he was used to, but it was present. Besseth Southcross hated. She raged, against something, and those were the tools he needed. Calm acceptance was too logical, and he could find no chinks in it. This was different.

"Why?"

She laughed, and he was somewhat dismayed that most of it seemed to be honest amusement with him and that the edge of rage he was counting on was nearly gone. "As you keep reminding me, Tibault, I was a citizen of Lordaeron. I found her king lacking. So I supported her Prince to the Throne. I serve a Menethil, to this day. Certainly, Terenas failed me. Uther failed me. The Silver Hand failed me. That's fine, Tibault. They lie dead..." She held her hand open before her face, "And this hand has been anointed with the blood of the so called Lightbringer. I do not let their lacks eat me, Tibault. They failed. They paid. It's time to carry forward."

"By destroying every living on the world?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Precious, precious little paladin." She breathed, "For all the world is dark and you don't want to see it that way."

"All the world is not dark. You've been locked in darkness for so long that you don't remember..."

She stood, her eyes calm and resigned as she watched him. "I don't remember what, Tibault?"

"What it was like...before?"

"Before. There was no before, Tibault. This is all that is. Every scar on my body came from before I served Arthas. They came from those who were supposed to love me, keep me, and care for me. My father. My husband. I do remember, Tibault, and that is the problem. The darkness was there before, unnoticed, as paladins and nobles rode by, unimpressed by the problems of a peasant farm woman. All most of them ever cared about was how cheaply my husband would sell me to them for a night. This is better than before, Tibault. Or I wouldn't be here."

"So you've been hurt, and you hold it against us."

"When your job is to prevent, protect and care, I most certainly do. Paladins are all bluster and little substance, full of fight for the big, glorious fights, but they miss the small ones. And mine was just a small one. The master has cared for me well beyond the will of any paladin."

"Cared for you? You were a skeleton, wasting away. If he truly cared for you, I possibly may not have been able to take you at Light's Hope. You would have had the weight, muscle and physical ability to hold me back. But you didn't."

"As long as I live, I am weak." The proclamation was again calm and level. She believed it. He knew, at that moment, that she was well aware of the plot to have killed her at New Avalon, and condoned it.

"If that is so..." He stared at her, "Then why have you waited this long to die? If you truly believe that your life makes you weak, less, then why have you struggled so long to stay alive? You must have, to have survived this long. Some part of you won't give it up without a fight, Besseth. Some part of you understands, still. And that is why we're still willing to fight for you, because on some level, you still fight for yourself."

She did not give him the argument he expected, she contented herself with a shrug. "What does it matter?" She finally asked. "You say you will fight for me, but you will deny me the only joy in my life. Living here, like this, is what? At least Arthas gave me what I wanted, without question. You will just talk, and talk about how valuable I am, how redeemable I am, and it's nothing but empty words, Tibault. You'll never trust me enough, nor should you."

"You wish to train Anselm."

There was a flash of something in her eyes, desire, anger, almost akin to lust, and then it was gone, hidden again beneath her outward calm. "A cruel question, paladin. But I guess I deserve it." She stood slowly, moving towards the stairs. "All of this has tired me." She breathed, "I go to sleep now."

He watched her go, and waited long enough for her to sleep, before moving back to the window. His eyes found Anselm's auburn head, and he frowned. Yes, in those few moments, he had seen a light shine there, but it was gone again. The lad was awkward, fumbling, and it seemed worse now, like something had been snatched from him. It was pure foolishness to actually consider giving her what she shied away from requesting, the blessing to train one of their initiates.

He shouldered his cloak, and moved back out into the brightness, his steps long now that he had made up his mind. Tirion would deny the request, but he would ask it anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

A request, Highlord." It had been hot in Stormwind, but his breath fogged before him in Icecrown's bitter cold.

"Go ahead, Tibault. All goes well in Stormwind? Problems?"

"Besseth comes to herself quite well, Highlord. She gains weight and health in great leaps..."

Tirion frowned, thoughtful. "And, as feared, she grows bored and restless as she does so."

"Yes, Highlord, and there's another...issue." Tibault shrugged when Tirion raised granite eyes to him. "She wishes to teach again. To take another child under her wing and bring it up as she has apparently done time and time again for the Lich King."

The Highlord leaned back, his gaze planted on the ceiling above him. "And, since she has only been exposed to members of the Order, she must wish to train one of our recruits. Which one does she have an eye on, Tibault? You wouldn't have come had she not already chosen one..."

"Anselm Tiegan."

"Harlech and Aislinn's son."

"That would be him, yes." That made Besseth's request all the more unlikely to be given blessing. She had exhibited the uncanny ability to glance into a crowd and unerringly pick the recruit she'd be least likely to be given access to. The child of two paladins, both survivors of the purge, who had placed their lives on the line to give his aunt enough time to run with him to safety, to escape the Scourge, and likely, to escape Besseth. "They'd never permit it."

"Has he met her, or did she pick him as worthy from the shadows?"

"He has met her. She got a hold of him in a drill, ran him through his maneuvers for awhile. He learned from her quickly. It's a shame, if she was trustworthy; he'd certainly be the one we'd want to see with a dedicated trainer like that."

Tirion clasped his hands together, his attention far away. "How did he take to her?"

"Anselm?" At the nod, Tibault chuckled. "Blushed like a lad after his first kiss..." Whatever it was that he had said, the Highlord's face set. He remained silent for a long moment, as if embroiled in an internal debate, before he nodded.

"She is not to teach him the arts of death, Tibault. You are to give him the training he requires in the Light and its gifts. Make absolutely certain that she knows I will consider that a breach of her capitulation if she tries to teach him in ways contrary to his path and calling. Tell her that I, personally, will take her to task for the breach of her surrender for it. Inform Anselm exactly what it is he will be dealing with if he accepts her as a trainer. And then step back."

Tibault coughed, and it had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Blessing. The Highlord had just given his blessing to this. "I...understand, my lord." He lied, and Tirion chuckled, shaking his head.

"You don't. Neither do I."

Tibault had returned. Besseth had felt him leave, and she felt him return. She heard him pace, his boot heels echoing on the broad plank floor. Finally, it was too much to even play at sleeping through, she tossed on a random gown and came downstairs. His expression jumped when he saw her, then he gave her an odd mix of a frown and a glare. "I spoke to Tirion."

"You smell of Icecrown." She confirmed, and he paused, distracted by the odd statement. But he did, he smelled of ice, and that undefined smell of home. For a moment she was seized by a sudden, crushing homesickness.

I want to go home. She wailed it in her heart, but the master did not deign to reply. She didn't expect him to, but she felt more and more distant from him every day. She filled out. She wore pretty dresses. Her cheeks blossomed, and the color chased away the wine bruises on -her face. And today, there had been a dark strand in her hair.

"If Anselm is agreeable, and you understand that there are certain stipulations to this, you will be permitted to train him."

What? She stared at him in shock. He really hadn't just said what she thought he had... "Which stipulations?" She finally managed, and he sat down, pulling a notebook from his pack. He pushed it along the table towards her, and she took it, moving to the window well for light. The hand was unfamiliar, the notes terse and without embellishment. Firstly, she was required to undergo a full healing, at the hands of the finest of the Church and Order. She was not to teach him any art that when used would compromise his affinity to the Light. She was to accept the need for a second, back up trainer, to teach him the arts of a paladin... Tibault.

"A full healing?" She echoed dubiously. That sounded dire and quite painful.

"You have been exposed to the plague. You also seem to have illnesses other than that. If we understand the way you train, you will be in very close proximity to Anselm for long periods of time. He's not a true paladin; he is not immune to illness. We will not allow you to infect him."

"Those other, um, illnesses will not be an issue. I don't intend to allow young Anselm to get, as you say, that close in proximity to me."

He hissed through his teeth, and she stared at him dubiously. He almost said something, he almost argued, but then he shook his head. "These are the Highlord's requirements, Besseth. They are not negotiable. I don't care if you really want to remain one and one with your lovely case of the pox... Tirion will not allow it. Undergo the healing, or do not seek this with Anselm. Your decision. Is it important enough for you to do this?"

Besseth growled, her glare fixed outside. There he was, one ember bright head. She felt like a mother denied her rights, a lover kept far away. This was not acceptable. It would tear her apart. "It is." She finally conceded.

"Then come with me."

The Chapel in Stormwind was grand, close to the grandeur of Icecrown, and Besseth frowned. So many priests... she disliked them when she found them within axe range, and now, she didn't even have that comfort. She was unarmed. Unarmored. Completely vulnerable.

A priest approached, and she watched him come with a fixed stare. His eyes narrowed when he drew close enough to see the waning marks on her face, and he gave Tibault a questioning look. "Lord Paladin?" He queried softly.

"This is Besseth, held in custody by the Highlord Tirion. As she has honorably surrendered to us, and behaved as befits that, he wishes her healed of her illnesses if it is at all possible. We believe her illness keeps her tied to the Lich King, and that she cannot grow from him if she is constantly reminded of it." Tibault sighed, and Besseth did not like the resignation in his voice. He felt... that this was necessary. Difficult, harsh, but necessary. It was going to hurt...

She eyed the nearest exit, and as if he understood, he placed a gently restraining hand on her shoulder. "Besseth. I will not leave you at any time during this. That, I promise."

Some comfort that was.

It was, beyond a doubt, one of the most excruciating experiences in Besseth's life, and she'd had quite a few before. By the end of it, three days later, she'd been reduced to a shivering, cursing, vomiting pile. And, when Tibault gently placed her back in her bed in his office, there was silence from the back corners of her mind. She had never felt so miserable or alone in her entire life.

The sound of Raein's footsteps on the flagstones was dire. The way he crossed his arms over his chest was dire. His intently dismal stare was dire. Something had gone wrong, and Declan sighed. "Yes, my brother?" He finally asked when Raein did not offer.

"We seem to be gaining a new brother." Raein finally stated, and Declan frowned. If Besseth had found another, their options became limited. She would not leave a child. He knew that as much as anyone. They would either be forced to leave her where she was until she was done, and the birth of a child was never a quick ordeal, or they'd be forced to get them both.

"Ugh." He growled, feeling that there was more. "And the rest?"

"The Church in Stormwind completed a full healing on her. I couldn't get close enough to gauge how successful it was, but if she lives, she can be healed by them. It felt..." Raein shrugged thoughtfully. "She felt less. And more. When they were done with her. Less ours, but more there, if that makes any sense."

Declan bowed his head in somber thought. As Alaroc had proclaimed, healing her was the last thing they wanted to do. She had fed upon the Master's power and the power of her runed weapon to survive the damage done to her body both before and during the plague. Every moment she fought to live, she had tied herself closer to the true king. Now, that link had been severed, destroyed. "Damnation." He spat out her favored obscenity, and Raein sighed. Keeping control of their mother was becoming more and more difficult a task...

Tibault just sat, stunned. He had been silent since the priests had given him custody of her, returned her, and he had no words. She wasn't merely lovely. She was more, and he was too shocked to do anything. It wasn't just her appearance, although that was notable enough, it was the power, the glory, of that soul, untarnished. A paladin, body and soul. Two of the three requisites... all she lacked now was heart. Such a waste, she was too damned old now to go through the training and initiation, even if she were willing to do so. She was lost to them now.

Her eyes opened, and he quickly grimaced what he hoped was a comforting smile. By her dubious stare, he knew he'd failed, but she sat up slowly. "Never again." She hissed at him, and he raised a brow. Her hair was no longer pale. Her skin was blushed with health, the bruising gone. She shone, but she still possessed the deep, harsh voice he had assumed came from the corruption of her body. "What?" She demanded.

"I thought your voice was another aspect of the darkness within you." He murmured, and she gave him a throaty laugh in response.

"Hardly. That has always been truly mine. Why do you look so...stunned?"

He pointed in silence to the glass hanging in his bedroom. She moved to it, staring at her own reflection for a long moment. "That is unfortunate." She finally stated, "But I am certain I will return to my usual self in time. Not before I am done with Anselm, but this..." She curled a lip in blatant disgust, "Cannot be tolerated forever."

"You're beautiful." He breathed, and she sent him a look that still had the weight of a servant of the Lich King. "This is why you hate men. You looked like this before the Scourge found you, and you were ill used. You feel safe being overlooked..." He sighed, sitting and running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Besseth, you can fight now. You proved that to me at Light's Hope. You're not helpless..."

She spun from the mirror, staring at him. "I am unarmored. I am unarmed, and now you have severed me from my tie with the true king. This..." She motioned at herself, "Is an abomination, Tibault!"

"This is a lovely woman who has every reason to feel trepidation, Besseth." He sighed, shaking his head. "The Order failed to take care of you earlier. I can guarantee that we will not fail you again, now that we know."

"And now, I do not wish the Order to care for me, Tibault. Another has taken that responsibility. The Order may have captured me, but I still belong to the True King, and he has never failed to care for me."

"Cared." Tibault barked the word out, no longer trying to keep his voice level. "While you wasted away and rotted from the inside out? The saddest thing is that the plague was not what was killing you. The pox was."

She chuckled, grinning, and he swallowed. If she was lovely while she brooded, then she was doubly lovely when she beamed. "Yeeeesss... Tibault, I was dying of the clap. Something any paladin or priest could have cured me of a long time ago. I think you miss the point, silly paladin. And, for the rest of it, there was always plenty to eat. The King sets a fine table, or I could just go get it myself. Anything I wanted was there for the taking. The point is, idiot, that I did not ever want to look like this again!"

"I'm sorry." He breathed, and she shrugged.

"Again, this is merely temporary. When I am done with Anselm, this will not be tolerated." She growled it, and he bowed his head. He was going to get nowhere with her right then, and he understood it. Convincing her that it was wonderful that she was lovely, when it had brought her nothing but pain and misery before was beyond his abilities.

"If Anselm agrees to this..." He began, changing subjects. She was not going to be happy with what she saw in the mirror, and the best way to calm her was to distract her. "What do you need from me? Tirion stated we are both to train him then."

"When he agrees..." She raised a contentious brow, obviously the idea that he would not agree had never occurred to her, nor was she going to let it occur to her now. "I will need a place to be with him. Gear. A suitable library..."

And from Tirion's words, she had his blessings to have these things given to her. "Then we will ask Anselm if he agrees. If...when... he agrees, you can ready the two upstairs bedrooms, and we will bring him under my roof." Just one thing after another...watch the death knight. See to her recovery. And now, train with her. Train one of their own, closely, teach him to be a paladin while he was trained by a servant of the Scourge. It was enough to make his head spin. Maybe he was lucky, and Anselm was sane enough to turn this down.

Anselm Tiegan, youngest son of Harlech and Aislinn Tiegan, was in a gloomy mood. Born, bred and raised to be a paladin, it should have been simple. He was big enough, bright enough, willing enough. It still wasn't enough, or hadn't been enough until four days ago. That was when the calm voice had pinpointed what he was doing wrong, and she had stepped to his side. There, for just a handful of moments, he had felt he could get this. And then he'd looked into her face and knew otherwise. He'd heard of those who looked like that, pale, sickly, with spider web hair and bruised eyelids... they served the darkness.

His classmates had been happy to fill him in on the rest of it, she had been brought out of Light's Hope, a prisoner of war. A death knight, one of those his parents had fought so harshly against. This one hadn't even seen the Light and fallen in with the Argent Crusade as the former Highlord Mograine's troops had, she was strictly held by the lord Tibault.

"Anselm." Speaking of... Anselm raised eyes warily to the large man standing in his doorway. Tibault seemed discomfited, lost, almost embarrassed. "You have met Besseth." He began, and Anselm nodded, motioning the lord paladin into his spare cell. Tibault filled what little space there was on the floor, closing the door behind him. "She wants to teach you."

Anselm's heart jumped, then dropped. That made it worse. She wanted to, she was willing, and it still wasn't going to happen. He'd seen just the faintest hint of hope, and it wasn't for him. "I'm very sorry to hear that." He sighed when it was obvious that Tibault was waiting for a response. "She won't be allowed to." He continued when Tibault stared. "I know what she is, milord. She is a servant of the Lich King, held by us."

"Besseth was apparently one of the Lich King's trainers. She trained death knights." Tibault began slowly, and Anselm studied the floor in thought. Of course she had. Of course that had trained the enemy, and had shown him in no uncertain terms that she could teach him. That was the person who could put his feet squarely on the same path his parents and siblings walked. "She's asked permission, as I said, to teach you."

Anselm successfully fought the sarcastic snort that rose in answer to that. Not going to happen...

"And..." Tibault ran his fingers through his hair, "Highlord Tirion has given her his blessings to do so. If you agree to this, she will teach you, except for the things that she cannot. I will be teaching you those."

"What?" It was a graceless response, but Anselm could not believe his ears. Surely Tibault hadn't just said what he thought he'd said? "Milord, that woman is not fit for the job!" Those words came out completely wrong; he realized when they were out. And he didn't quite like the almost blatant relief on Tibault's face when he heard them. "I mean, physically, and perhaps spiritually..." He let the words fade. She had been unclean when she touched him, and so fragile. The fragility bothered him a hundred times more than the uncleanliness did, and on some level that bothered him.

"Besseth has undergone a healing and purging from the Cathedral here. That has resolved the majority of these problems, Anselm. She is healed, whole again. While she has not sworn to us, nor does she show any signs of wanting to, she does not appear to be unclean anymore. As I said, I would be responsible for training you to be a paladin, those arts she is unable to..."

"If she's physically able to train me, then I would certainly go to her..."

For just a second, the great Tibault had a look that verged on panic and a great unwillingness, before it dissolved again. "Very well then, Anselm." He sighed, shaking his head. "I will let Besseth know that you will be moving from the barracks here and in with us. Your training with her begins tomorrow, pack your belongings."


	8. Chapter 8

"It's obvious, my brother. I finally set eyes upon her myself." Raien sighed, his voice resigned. "Besseth looks the same as any other living human woman now. What little had changed is now gone. Her hair is colored. Her cheeks are colored. She oozes health." He spat on the floor, ignoring the spot after it froze to the stone. "I cannot sense the link to us, even when I was close to her. I cannot sense the link to him, either. If I did not know that was my mother, I would have no compunctions about attacking her whatsoever. She no longer feels like a member of the Scourge, Declan. She no longer feels like one of us."

"I will not abandon my mother to those damnable paladins." Declan hissed, glaring out of the window which overlooked Icecrown. "We were..." Again, that word...

"Promised different." Raien finally put that word into reality, made it tangible, and Declan nodded in agreement.

"Much as I hate to use that word, yes."

"We did not ask for anything we should have not received, Declan. Our mother, elevated to the status she deserves. She was one of his first. She has never wavered in her loyalty. All should know her, pay her the respect she deserves, the respect we, as her children, deserve. But they are right, my brother. We cannot get another in as deeply as the Order will take her in." His dark brown eyes followed Declan as the quel'dorei paced in thought. "We have all the time in existence, Declan."

"She will fall, Raien. Cut off from him, cut off from us, what choice has she?"

"If she falls, we take her back. By force, if that is what is necessary. The best death knight is a fallen paladin, Declan. Besseth will just be one more." Raien clenched his sword fist, the saronite of his gauntlets grinding audibly. "Good enough for the King, good enough for our mother." He grinned, and Declan nodded slowly. "So what if she trains another?" Raien continued, moving to the window beside the one that Declan had been staring out of. "No matter what he is taught to be, he will still be one of us. When we bring her home, what chance does he have without her? Not only do we regain Besseth, we gain another of us. It's all good, my brother."

Declan nodded, even though he wasn't certain if he completely agreed. He knew Besseth better than any of them, with the possible exception of his own twin. If she gained any sort of focus, a new foundling, a man who cared for her, an Order to belong in, then they risked truly losing her.

"Would that be so bad?"

He jumped, his hand rising towards the runed blade resting across his shoulders, before he relaxed. Raien had let himself out of the room awhile ago, the form shifting from the deep shadows was too tall, too thin, to be the human. His hair fell in a pale reddish blond rope, the same hue as Declan's. "Diar?" He asked, and his twin took the position that Raien had held earlier, staring from the window.

"If our mother wanted to die, Dec, she wouldn't have fought so strongly against it. She's always wanted to live. Now, maybe she has the chance to."

"By betraying us? By betraying the master?"

"She does not betray him if he is the one who ordains that she remains with the Crusade, Declan. I think the problem is the first part. You feel betrayed, and not by her. You're afraid we're going to lose her, and you worry."

"You suggest I step back away from this."

His twin smiled, clasping him on the shoulder. "I do. Let her go, for awhile. Let her live, for awhile. Life is harsh, my brother. Take your joy where you find it. She gave us that, give it back to her. A year for the fledgling, and we see what goes then."

Anselm stood in the doorway, and Besseth drank in every detail of his appearance. Yes. Any residual doubts she might have had vanished, this one was meant to be great. And that meant, right now, that he was meant to be hers. "You are Besseth." He finally stated, allowed to take his time into the introduction by the silent Tibault. "Besseth...?"

"Southcross. I hail from eastern Lordaeron, originally." Not far from where the Tiegans had held their land grant. She had been familiar with the family long before she had become one of the Lich King's servants. Not that they had been familiar with hers, of course. They had been busy with horses, weapons and armor, while hers had been busy with dirt, pigs and potatoes. Beneath notice. "I've readied your room upstairs."

Like that had been difficult. Both of the upstairs bedrooms had been unused, probably exactly as they had been when Tibault had moved in. All she had done was prop the windows open, strip the coverings from the furniture and run a broom around the corners. "We'll start in the morning." She stated, her gaze falling on Tibault. "Since you've agreed to this, I need certain things..."

Tibault sighed, chuckling. "Gear. Yes. Weapon. Armor. Horse. Access to a library better than mine? Tirion says you're to have it all, within reason. "

His word was good. They left the youngling to settle himself in his new quarters while Tibault took her shopping. The gear was not a problem, Besseth was more than competent to choose her own, if she was willing to tolerate the fact that none of it was going to look right. The ones offered for sale here looked more like a paladin's harness than hers, and hers had started out its career as just that. "It's so...bright." She grumbled, and Tibault grinned.

"Black is just so...yesterday." He sniped back, holding up a lovely example of a chain coat. "Here. This one has some black in it."

She weighed it in her hands, feeling the sudden interest of the vendor. It had a good heft. Even though it had different colored metals in stripes of steel, brass, and inky saronite, each link had the same weight and density. It would be a little large on her, even with the weight she was putting on, but it could be taken in. "Very nice." She granted, and he nodded, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Buying for the woman, Tibault?" The vendor asked, amusement and some confusion on his face. Besseth was not a youngster anymore, so she was obviously not a baby paladin being outfitted. And even if she were, she would be geared from the Order's stores, not from the marketplace.

"Besseth is going to be doing some training for us. As she's not a paladin, it's not fitting to gear her as one."

"Ah. I see. She looked a little older than most of your prospects, Tibault." He studied Besseth. "What's your usual combat load? I know people, if you're going for the full set...?"

Tibault nodded while Besseth carefully kept her face placid. She didn't want the full set. She wanted her runed weapon back, her usual gear back... but Tirion held the weapon, and the rest of her gear, her library, was probably now in Declan's safekeeping. "Two handed axe." Tibault supplied when she didn't answer, too caught up in her own angst to reply. "Right, Bess?" It had been years, absolute years, since anyone had called her that, and she swallowed back her response. "Right." She managed. "And it's Besseth."

He frowned, running a hand down the matching legs for the coat. "You called me Tib before. And it's Tibault." He nodded to himself, slinging them over his shoulder as well. "Besseth is a very lovely name. But not the easiest to manage... where it came from, I'm not certain."

"My mother wasn't certain if she wanted to name me Bess or Beth. She used to call me Bessbeth when I was born... That became Besseth." And then, she'd been dead...

"Elizabeth would have worked." He added a gambeson, thick and sky blue, to the mix. Besseth ignored it, the color was brightly disturbing, but he wasn't asking her.

"She was Elizabeth."

"Ah. I see. You're named after your mother." He led the way, following the vendor as the man moved to a selection of weapons. He gazed at them for a long moment, then easily picked the axe closest to her rune weapon, glancing at her for her agreement. She gave it with a slight nod, watching as he paid the man. "Now, for a horse." He breathed, and she flinched. The living, breathing version of those was something she had absolutely no experience with.

"Um...Tibault?"

"What?" He paused, his eyes falling on her.

"I... don't know how to ride. Not... really. Until I had my dreadsteed, I'd never been on a horse in my life." He froze in place, obviously stunned by that admission. Of course, he came from a world where young paladins came to the Order during their childhoods, most of them raised in some manner that eased their passage. Besseth had not been. "I was not a paladin, Tibault. I was a wife... nothing but a farmer's wife and a farmer's daughter." Only the master had seen better there, placed a weapon in her hands and elevated her to more. Only in his service had she ceased to be dirt and become Lady Besseth. And then he'd given her Declan and Diarmid, twinned quel'dorei nobility on a fast track to his favor... that had changed it all. She'd possibly learned more from the pair of them than she had ever taught them. Their respect, their deference, had been the corner she'd moved around, letting go of Bess, the whore, the wife, to rise to become Lady Besseth, Champion of the Lich King.

"You...can't ride." He stumbled over the words in abject confusion, and she felt sorry for him. Life was supposed to be easier than this for him. "Not even a little bit? Childhood pony?"

She didn't bother to bite back the laughter at that. A pony? "Hardly." She sputtered. "No pony."

"Are you opposed to learning? From me? From Anselm?"

"I've been taught by my children before." Each of them had made her stronger, better. Declan and Diarmid had taken her, fresh from the farm, and had slapped a layer of grace and noble temper onto her. Each of them had followed, each a different facet she had learned. "Most of what I know, I learned from them."

"But they consider you to be their teacher, their mother?"

She shrugged. "It's even more amusing when you realize the first two are about a hundred and fifty years older than I happen to be. But yes, they call me mother." He was silent, leading the way through the packed marketplace until he reached the pickets. She glanced at the horses offered, clueless. Each and every one of them just looked like a meal on legs. Tibault fell into a heated debate with the stablemaster, and she sighed, gazing away. At least the weapons and armor had made sense. This was senseless. She had a perfectly useful dreadsteed... maybe. She felt none of the power flowing, felt none of the master's favor or interest anymore. It was like she had truly been abandoned here...

"Here, Besseth. This one?"

She glanced from his grinning face to the animal in question, moving closer to it. Every animal before had shied away from her, pinned its ears back, but this one just thrust a big, velvety nose in her direction, snorting. It stood placidly enough when she patted it warily. "Should do." She finally granted, still at a loss, and Tibault's grin widened. Whatever it was she was missing, he was certainly proud of it.

"Good. Let's go home and teach a paladin."

There had been a hole in Tibault's life. He just hadn't noticed it, so wrapped up in fighting for the Order. He frowned, staring out of the window over the list field. He'd had Besseth for four months now, and her very presence created an ache in his life. As close as he was to her, he could no longer deny what was obvious to him. She's too old. He sighed, shaking his head. She should have been brought into the training during her childhood, around ten or twelve. Not...however old she currently was. She'd been old enough to have been married before the Scourging, and that was nine years ago. "Besseth."

She paused in her eating, side by side with Anselm, and he could feel her raise eyes to study his back. "Yes, Tibault?"

"How old are you?"

He could feel her staring at him, "Thirty... three, I believe now. Why?"

Thirty three. By now, she should have been a fully fledged paladin by at least thirteen years. Almost as long as he had been one. It was insanity to even consider it... But something had to be done. They'd taken her from her place, torn her abilities from her, and left her with little to keep herself from falling right back to Arthas when she was done with Anselm. Tibault could not let her fall, he cared too much. And if she fell, she'd take Anselm right with her. The Lich King would regain his master trainer, and gain a lovely new young knight in the bargain. And that would be a failure he could not deal with...to lose the woman he had grown to care for, and the youngling, child of the Order, he was entrusted with.

"Are you done with breakfast?" He asked, aware of how dire and empty his voice sounded.

"Certainly. I'm ready to take Anselm out to the list..."

"We're not going to play with Anselm today. He has the day off. I believe the faire's in town. He can go there." He grimaced, feeling Anselm's sudden, great interest, and her wary gaze. "You and I have business to attend to."

"We do?"

"We do. Get your gear and meet me on the list." It was perfect. Most of the younglings would have been released to visit the faire, to have a little time to kick up their heels. Anselm could reconnect with his classmates, the ones he'd been taken from, and Tibault should have the lists pretty much to himself. The fewer spectators, the better.

"You want a repeat of Light's Hope?" She sounded concerned, and he didn't blame her. Then she'd been in the Lich King's favor, and now he had doubts she still rested there. He'd seen precious little of those abilities since she'd begun training Anselm. She appeared to be little more than an extremely talented trainer...even though those were few and far between. Her value to the Order as nothing more than that was inestimable. Even if she could never delve into any reservoir of power, either the power that the Light gave her soul, or the power channeled into her by the Lich King, she'd be immensely valuable. If he could breach the locks on her soul, pull her into the Light where she truly belonged, she'd be priceless.

"I'll see you there. Ready to go."

It was quieter than usual on the list, not as empty as he'd hoped, but this was probably as good as he was going to get. She stepped out onto the sand, her eyes following him warily. He could feel the marshall's attentions perk... She was here. He was here. Anselm was... in the fitful knot of watchers on the side. So much for the faire.

"This is hardly fair, Tibault." She growled, her deep voice making her sound even more disapproving than her words. "We learned the outcome to this at Light's Hope. You won then, I stood down. Why do we have to repeat this?"

"Humor me."

"Bastard." She moved to his weaker side, gliding gracefully across the sand as he watched her come. He nodded to the nearest marshall, who watched with some concern. Let it begin. Let him see what she still possessed from the Lich King, and if he could begin to pull the first stirrings of the Light from a soul born saturated with it.

"Lay on!" The marshall yelled, and she galvanized into her first attack. She was not as fast as she'd been at Light's Hope, not as inexorable a foe, but she was stronger, heavier. And, she was completely without the touch of her king. Even when he started to escalate, to throw magically based attacks at her, she did not reciprocate.

He nodded, pulling off of the field and motioning her to come. She did, slowly, her eyes dark with betrayal and anger. "What?" He asked, and she glared at him.

"Was that necessary?" She spat, and he raised a brow.

"Yes, Besseth. I believe it was. Why are you so upset?"

"You bring me here, in front of Anselm, make a mockery of me, and then want to know why I'm so upset? You bloody damn fool!"

He wiped his blade down, and slid it carefully into its scabbard. "I made no mockery of you, Besseth. You acquitted yourself admirably. Your combat abilities are quite noteworthy."

"But." She spat out the word, and he nodded.

"Either you held back, which I doubt, or you are no longer channeling the Lich King's power." She stared hatred back at him, and he held up a hand. "Enough of that, Besseth. At least hear me out."

She sighed, planting the headspike of her axe into the ground and nodding after a long pause. "Fine. Tibault, I will hear you out. I assume there is a point to this that I don't see yet?"

"You accused me once of disarming you, making you vulnerable. We have armed and armored you again, but I'm afraid you're still vulnerable without his touch on your soul. I wanted to see how competent you were to take care of yourself if something did indeed happen. You are lovely, yes, and I know you have some...concern...about that. Valid concerns."

"You cannot give me back his favor."

"That's true." And a return to his favor was the absolute last thing that Tibault wanted to see happen. "But you have another source of power you can draw upon that does not require his favor."

She laughed suddenly, as deeply as her voice. "Oh, tell me you do not mean what I think you mean, Tibault! Tell me you are not about to suggest teaching me the ways of the Light as you've been teaching Anselm. Teaching me the arts of a paladin?"

"Why not? I believe you can do it. I believe you can do it beyond what you could manage as a death knight. You were merely adequate as that, weren't you?"

"But, in all of those there, you chose to go after me. Even though you call me merely adequate now. You were the one who kept me from retreating. You were the one who held me at Light's Hope, and you are the reason I have been captured." Her eyes were cold and level, and he could only bow his head in acknowledgment.

"I went after you because I sensed you lived. And I sensed the Light within you. I went after you because I sensed you could be this. You refuse to die. You refuse to give up your soul to the entity you call master. In spite of everything that has been done to you, you still hold onto the Light. You make a poor death knight, but a miraculous teacher and mother. That is not his touch, Besseth. That is not his gift. That comes from within you." He slammed his gauntleted fist into the links covering her chest, hard enough to rock her back on her heels, but not hard enough to cause injury. "You have the soul of a paladin. The Light burns within you. All you need is the heart to follow it. You are bigger than everything that has ever been done to you."

"Fight for those who failed to fight for me?"

The day, balmy, turned chilled and he bowed his head again. Faith was never easy, and it was all the more difficult when faced with questions like that one. He reached across again, resting his hand on her shoulder. "Besseth Southcross. Do not fight for us, for as you say, we failed to fight for you." He squeezed slightly. "Fight for those who are currently wondering why there are no paladins to fight for them. Be the one you prayed for, Besseth." He shook his head. "I cannot go back and fight then for you, my...friend. If I could, I would. But I can fight for you now, and I will."

She stared at him dubiously. "You don't actually believe I can wield the Light?"

"I do believe that." That was one of the few things in this that he didn't doubt. "That is the least of my worries."

"And the most of your worries?"

He sighed, letting his gaze travel to Anselm, watching from the crowd that had gathered. "I fear that the Lich King, through the agents of your children, will come to reclaim you. That we will lose you. I fear that yes, you can channel the Light, but that you are too old to train as a paladin and that I offer you at best a half hearted chance." Had he only found her then, when it would have made a true difference. He was only a handful of years her elder, soon to turn thirty seven, but as she accused, his heart had been full of the big fights then. Now he'd been brought home to Stormwind to fight on a different scale, and he finally understood it. He was here to fight for a soul imbued with the power and glory of the Light, tarnished by pain and terror. He was here to be a friend. A confidant. And a partner to a person ill used to counting on another. A father figure to a young paladin who he now understood needed one desperately. A smaller fight, but equally as valid. His...family...odd as it was.

"Too old." She frowned pensively, leaning against the axe. "It's always surprised me how quickly I went from too young squarely to too old. It was as if there was no time when I was the right age for anything."

"I'm willing to try if you are." He shrugged. "It will be embarrassing if Anselm can defeat you well before his training with you is over. And if you do not have something more, he will."

Her nostrils flared in horror, and he knew she'd try, at the very least. Cut off from the Lich King meant that seeking the Light within her was her only option. Now, all they had to do was teach her, and keep her. It was time to get Tirion's blessing again...


	9. Chapter 9

"Back again, Tibault? Problems?" Tirion sighed with the air that all he was brought were problems, and he did not look forward to another heaved on him. "The death knight being an issue?"

Tibault sat on the chair that the highlord motioned to. "No, milord. Besseth has been well behaved. She has begun to train Anselm, as promised, and he is making quick progress. Milord, why did you send her back with me? To the Order, instead of into a prison?"

"The woman burns with the Light, Tibault. She is a victim, not a perpetrator... Incarcerating her would do no good, and much harm, I felt. I was wrong?"

"No, milord. That's why I've come to see you, in fact. Besseth submitted to the healing and purging you required...obviously, since she is teaching Anselm." The Highlord nodded, and Tibault took a deep breath. "The healing was more successful than I dared to hope. It seems to have severed Besseth's tie to the Lich King. Her soul shines now, obvious to pretty much any to see. I have offered her the chance to train with it..."

Tirion's face flowed through a myriad of expressions, too quickly for Tibault to accurately pin any of them down. "Besseth is... thirty?" He finally asked slowly, and Tibault grimaced.

"Thirty three, she says. Nine years since the Scourging, and she admits to having been married before that. I know she is old, Highlord, but..."

"But I am old enough to still be her father." Tirion mused slowly, "And the Light did not hold that against me when I came back to the Order. She has been training steadily for the past nine years by training others. She is fit, on edge, and ready to go?"

"She is."

"Then go ahead. See if the Light will bless her, and if it does... begin her training. I would welcome Besseth Southcross as one of my sisters in the Order, Tibault. Let her shine as brightly as she will." He stared for a long moment at his desk before him, before pushing his chair back from it. "Her tie is severed?" He finally murmured, and Tibault nodded.

"Milord, you would not recognize her." If he hadn't been there the entire time, Tibault himself would doubt that he'd gotten the right woman back. "She is...lovely. She has lost all of the marks she had from his service. All of her gifts from him have died. It is wondrous and frightening all at once. I fear for her if that void is not filled. I fear for Anselm. Highlord, I fear for myself..."

He hadn't meant to say it all, but Tirion had always had the ability to get Tibault to pour his soul out. He grimaced when the Highlord's steady granite eyes locked on his face. "She's lovely." He repeated slowly. "I'm growing...fond...of her. I will fight to keep her."

"I see." Somehow, the Highlord meant just that. He saw, and did not judge. Tibault had always envied the man's ability to accept without judgment. "And she is willing to be initiated as a trainee. Very well, then, I will return to Stormwind, release her from the hold I have on her, and take her initiation oath from her. Then you can begin her training, Tibault."

Besseth stalked the faire, in a foul mood. Everything about it annoyed her, but she didn't want to go back home. She hated being made a fool of. She doubly hated being made a fool of in front an audience. And to be made a fool of in front of one of her children, still in training, was the greatest insult she could imagine. Anselm would never respect her now. Damn Tibault. Damn him to hell and back. He'd known he could take her on the ground at Light's Hope, the outcome here, now, should have been obvious.

"Mistress Besseth?"

Oh, there was the last soul she wanted to run into now. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and turned to give a display of gowns in the booth next to her more attention than they warranted. Anything to keep from facing him... "Anselm." She greeted slowly.

"I...don't understand." He murmured, moving closer.

"What's to understand?" The fingertips holding a rather garish lavender gown had gone numb, and she forced her attention to remain on it. "Tibault brought me down at Light's Hope. You knew that. No reason why he would fail to do so again..."

"I was told you were a death knight. A champion of the Scourge. Of the Lich King himself... Something has gone wrong. Any fool can see that, milady."

"Don't worry about it, Anselm." She shook her head at the booth's dealer when he decided the long moment she had spent staring at the gown equaled an interest to purchase it.

"Oh. I see." His voice was edged in steel, and she tilted her head to stare at him. He had the look she recognized as outraged and immobile young paladin. Sheer, pure stubborn. "On one hand..." He held out his sword hand, palm up, towards her. "You tell me to grow up. On the other..." He shadowed the motion with his off hand... "You tell me to not worry my young little head over it? And no, that dress is truly ugly."

She sighed, dropping the hem. She'd known that. And it was always harsh when the younglings realized 'grow up' meant they should be treated as the adults they were being pushed to be. "Anselm, the Highlord, Tirion, required me to be cleansed by the Church here before he would allow me to train you. It seems to have broken my tie to the master. I have lost his gifts." A death knight no longer. What a terrible idea.

"You have lost this because you chose to train me?"

That was the realization she had not wanted him to come to. But it was too obvious to not see it. "Yes." She finally admitted it to him, to herself.

He was still for a long moment, his eyes drawn to the deep, flawless blue of the sky vaulted overhead. "Walk with me." He asked finally, and she fell into step with him. She'd spent very little time truly alone with him, always carefully watched by Tibault. That one had taken his victories, both on the list, and her agreement to be trained, and had vanished somewhere with them. No great loss today. "The faire is boring anyway."

She shrugged. It was the first she'd been to, and she'd spent a childhood pining to go to one. No money then, and, laughably, no money now. Her pockets were still as empty as a beggar's. She'd never had a gold to her name. "Where are we going?"

"There's an inn on the docks... Tibault will never find us there. We can talk, for once."

"I've no money." He glanced at her, puzzled, and she spread her hands. "At Icecrown, I was given what I needed or wanted. Here, I am a prisoner... I don't get paid for that."

He chuckled, leading the way through the packed crowds. They thinned when he hit the docks, and by the time he'd come to the inn in question, the street was empty.

"Quite... seedy, young Tiegan." She noted, and he flashed her a cunning, wicked little smile. That was obviously exactly what he found so appealing about it.

"Thank you, Mistress Southcross. I think it's nice too. It has one stellar quality... so far, I've recognized no paladins from the Order in it, and I know most of them." He opened the door, and she smelled good food, and strong beer. Perhaps it wasn't quite as bad as it seemed.

He brought food, beer, and settled at a table in the far corner. "So, what now?" He finally asked. "You have lost your tie, your gifts, and now are...what?"

"Besseth Southcross."

He frowned, obviously hoping to hear more than that. "What does Tibault say?" He tried again, and she sighed.

"Tibault wishes to train me as a paladin."

Anselm straightened, blinked, and stared back at her. "Is that...possible?" He finally managed, and she shrugged, uncertain. It sounded pretty damn foolish to her as well.

"He believes I still hold the Light. That I can be taught to channel it. His greatest worry is that I may be too old to go through the training."

"That would be beyond wonderful." He caught her dubious look, and smiled. "Besseth. The Light is a gift, nothing at all to turn your back on. If I didn't truly believe it, then I wouldn't still be fighting. I gather that your life has been harsh, and that you embraced the darkness you found yourself in, but this is a chance you won't see again. What is the worst that will happen if you try? Are you more afraid of failing...or succeeding?"

Succeeding. If she failed, she would still be exactly what she was, Besseth, servant of the Lich King, held by her enemies. If she succeeded, then she would have to make a choice, the first true one she had made. She had not been asked if she wished to marry. Certainly never been asked her opinion on the worth her husband put in her. There had been no true choice to serve the master...she would serve, living or dead. That had been her choice. Live or die. This asked where her soul went, how she bled and served. This would now, no matter which way she went, make her a traitor. "Succeeding." She admitted, and he nodded.

"Then you would have to decide. Commit. Did you ever truly do that before?"

"Only to my children."

"Fair enough. Give us a chance, mistress. See for yourself. It's the only way you'll ever know for certain."

Only way to know for certain. Besseth was not surprised when she was called into the depths of the Order's keep at Stormwind. She was surprised, however, to see Tirion standing beside Tibault. The aged Highlord glanced at her, then narrowed his eyes and stared, not bothering to hide his surprise. He measured her silently for a very long moment, before raising a brow. "Besseth?"

"Yes."

"I'm impressed. The change in you is a great deal more than I was expecting." He moved closer, extending his hand slowly. When she did not bridle or pull away, he rested his open hand over her heart. She felt warmth, well above his body temperature, and a sudden sense of calm security. "Yes. Truly wondrous, Besseth. Tibault is correct. You have the soul to be a paladin, to stand in the Light with us. Whether or not you make that decision is up to you."

"You're not going to tell I'm too old?" She teased, and he laughed.

"Hell, girl, if you're too damned old, then I'm doomed. But you cannot take up the oaths of an initiate now, not while you are a prisoner of mine." He sighed, glanced up, nodded slowly as if involved in a discussion that only he could hear. "Besseth Southcross. I release you from your capitulation. You are free of me. Make this decision before you with care and great deliberation. Let me know your answer when you are ready to."

"I have already decided, Highlord."

He nodded. "Very well, then. Your decision is?"

She paused long enough to make Tibault look uncomfortable, but Tirion never wavered. "I will enter into this training, if I am still permitted to uphold my responsibilities with Anselm. Otherwise I will not consider it."

Tirion nodded, taking a seat and motioning her to do so as well. She did so, and Tibault sat farther away, close enough to hear, but far enough to seem distanced from it. "While I believe most young paladins in training have a lot to gain by living in the barracks, you have reached a certain age to where I doubt you'll gain much from the experience. You will need to attend the same classes as Anselm, those which teach you how to fight in a group. But I have no intention of removing Anselm from your and Tibault's custody. Things seem to be doing well the way they are now. I will not change them. Since you have made your decision, I would be proud to swear you in as an initiate, Besseth."

"Do you, Besseth Southcross, swear to the service of the Argent Crusade..." Tirion's voice was calm, firm, proud. Tibault, standing just beyond him, also stood proudly. Anselm's face was alight with joy. Besseth just felt...rather empty. The overwhelming denial she'd been expecting, no, praying for, did not happen. There was just one small voice whispering assent. It won in the lack of bellowing denial she'd be hoping for. She had truly been abandoned to her fate, and her fate was this... a paladin. If it wasn't so bitterly sad, it would be laughable.

"This, I swear." It was also sad, that in her thirty three years of life, it was the first oath she'd ever taken. Even her supposed wedding had been without one. The Lich King had never asked for one either, her service had been assumed. She stared at the floor, feeling the weight of Tirion's blade... Ashbringer... on her shoulder. It would know. It would see through this farce, and she'd die, here in the Order's cathedral at Stormwind. Again, on consecrated ground... far from the children.

"Besseth. You have been found worthy. Stand true, stand tall, and begin your training as a paladin of Azeroth."

The form hung from the ceiling, as adept as that odd leaning as any healthy soul on sound ground. The shift from ceiling to wall side caused no dismay as well, it stuck to the wall with the same grace and ease as a spider. It knew what it was looking for, and could feel the power from where it hung. There. It took one last, cautious gaze around before leaping the twenty feet to the cabinet. It was locked but that was little deterrent for a geist on a mission. A second later, the lock clicked and it pulled the door open. A great axe leaned up against the inside corner of the cabinet, the runes gouged into it glowing blue. "Grrhgh." The geist sighed, grasping it and slinging it across its back. A plain, shining walnut box rested beside where the axe had, and the geist's thin, nimble fingers opened it. A stained, stinking banner, white and blue still shining through the blood and filth rested within, along with a leather bag which clinked and ground metallically when the geist prodded it. These were the three items it had been sent to recover, the belongings of the master's mother lost in combat. It tucked the box under an elbow, and was gone, scooting quickly back to where the master waited.

"You got da stuff, ya?" The master asked from the darkness of a shadow thrown from between two trees. A slight fall of snow cascaded down like spilled salt...the day was still and the sky was clear. It would not snow again today. Perhaps tomorrow.

"Grrhgglhg." The geist muttered, unslinging the most important of the relics, the rune weapon of Besseth Southcross. Her child took it, testing its heft and balance.

"Ya. Good. Damn paladins keep 'nough of what's ours." The third child growled, his eyes glowing blue in the deepening twilight. "An' the rest?"

The geist surrendered the box, and Khraben opened the lid reverently. "Ya. Nice job." He rubbed the geist's head thoughtfully. "Nice, nice job, boy."

The geist merely watched him warily, and from its neck, a plain, thin brass ring hung from a fading pink ribbon stained darker in spots.


	10. Chapter 10

"Tibault?" Besseth queried slightly under her breath, and he tilted his head in reaction.

"Where...why?" If her knowledge of geography was correct, they would sail parallel to Lordaeron soon. There were so many reasons to not come here, and so few to. "Where do we go?" It was supposed to be some sort of a surprise, and Besseth hated surprises. Now that she had pinpointed her position, she liked them even less.

"Ebon Hold." He finally admitted, and she frowned. That made this a lot more than the stated journey to acquaint young paladins with the rigors of sea travel story. That had some validity, she herself had never traveled by ship before... but Acherus?

"Acherus." She echoed softly. "Why?" It wasn't a pleasant idea, and she still believed Mograine about as far as she could toss him. Even though she had done the same, turned traitor, she still had problems believing his motives and those of all who had turned from the Lich King. And now, the fool styled himself the Ebon Watcher. How stupid. How pretentious. "Tibault, I do not trust Mograine."

"You never have. Before when you were both in service to the Lich King, you did not. And now that you have both defected, you did not. Nothing seems to have changed, Besseth."

"I know that. Why do we go to Acherus?"

"The Ebon Blade has been most kind in allowing the Order to bring training classes there. To acquaint them with the layout and perils of a necropolis, for those times they'll be called upon to deal with one."

She stared at the ceaseless waves which surrounded her. Back, to another necropolis. Acherus. The one she'd arrived back on these shores upon. "I am familiar with the necropoli." She finally noted the obvious. She was as familiar with a true necropolis's workings as Mograine and any of his group could ever hope to be. She had walked the halls of Naxxramas, stood at the Lich King's elbow on the terrace of this very necropolis.

"Of course you are. But you are not familiar with ship travel. And I didn't think you would take kindly to Anselm going to the Ebon Hold without you. He is yours, after all."

She walked to the railings of the ship, staring northwestward. Anselm. Certainly he should not be on Acherus without her. She had her doubts if he should be going to any necropolis at all, but she saw the reason behind it.

"To you, it's just a necropolis, Besseth. Of any of us, you should be the least concerned about this trip. You've been there before... Lordaeron, the Ebon Hold."

"Uh huh." She muttered. He was right. Why did it feel so damned wrong, then?

Even though she had seen them a thousand times before, Acherus was still a breathtaking sight floating in the sky when the ship finally pulled into port. Still a reminder of the glory of the Scourge... and a poignant reminder of all that she had lost.

"By the Light above." Anselm muttered and Besseth snorted. The Light had nothing to do with that piece of work. "What is that?"

Tibault remained silent, and she knew he was going to let her take that question. "That is Acherus." She finally identified it. Let Mograine try to christen it for his own means, that was Acherus. "Mograine calls it the Ebon Hold now. It is still Acherus."

"Please don't get into a semantics war with Mograine." Tibault sighed. "In fact, please refrain from any sort of war with him. He speaks very highly of you, you should know. He has expressed concern about how we're treating you, has requested to have you returned to the Ebon Hold... into his safekeeping."

"Ha!" She'd find a way back to Northrend, however possible, if it came to that. "I'll leave Mograine alone if he leaves me alone." She didn't like the gaze she received in return... had Mograine been making that much of a pest of himself over her?

"I think you may underestimate the man's regard, Besseth. He's been quite persistent about getting you back. Says you belong with the Ebon Blade..."

"I do not." She was not going to play at being a halfhearted death knight. She either was... and gave it all she had, in service to the King, or she was not any part of it. "The Lich King granted them their gifts...which they still possess. The might of Northrend powers the necropoli..." She stared at Acherus. "Like that one. They still have not turned away from using the mindless as slave labor, Tibault. They scream that they have turned away from the true king, but I see no reality in that claim. They play, but they fool me not. The king has released them...for now. They will never stand against him as long as they use his gifts."

Tibault grimaced, his face grim, and she knew he'd either considered all of this before, or heard it brought up as an argument against the Ebon Blade at some time in the past. "We have considered these points before, Besseth. Not all are willing to throw it all away as you did. You have the ceaseless respect of the Order for that decision. Your arguments are valid. But I still ask you to behave as an initiate of the Order when it comes to Mograine, and indeed, every member of the Ebon Blade you will encounter here today. In other words, suck it up."

"Right." Suck it up. She silenced, dropping her eyes and willing herself smaller. It used to work... now, she was uncertain. The overlook ability she had cultivated as a servant of the king did not seem to be nearly as useful as it had before. Men still stared. Women still stared. Anselm came from beneath decks, his eyes planted firmly on Acherus.

"Mistress... that is?"

"Acherus." She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. If only it wasn't so damned imposing... "From what I understand, we'll be going there."

Going there. Across a field that seemed green and peaceful enough now, but Besseth's memory served her all too well, this had been a slaughtering ground only months ago. She trailed Tibault and the nervous Anselm in silence. The others of the class muttered, whispered, equally nervous. She didn't feel...nervous...she felt wrong. She knew what was there. She'd been there. Seen that. Lived there. Tibault was right, of all of them, she should be the best suited to go there.

A bored death knight stood at the transporter, his bearing just on the edge of insulting. "Paladins." He either greeted, or accused, Besseth was uncertain. "You are Tibault?"

"I am Tibault." Tibault agreed, stepping forward, and the death knight glanced at him.

"Mograine waits for you and your..." The glance fell on the class, "students, above." Besseth couldn't place a name to him, and the weight of his eyes did not rest on her any longer than any of the other initiates. He motioned at the transporter lazily. "I'll let you know..." He chuckled, "There's always one in every group who can't tolerate the necropolis. Too precious and pure for it." He laughed, and Anselm shifted at the sound. Besseth glanced sideways at him, not surprised at the set, disapproving glare he wore. "On the transporter, boys and girls..."

I don't want to do this. It was stupid, silly, and the last thought that went through Besseth's mind as she stepped onto the all too familiar surface.

The air hit her like an attack, deep and fetid. Instant nausea boiled in her throat, and she staggered against Anselm's bulk. He steadied her almost without thought. "What is that smell?" He marveled.

"You don't want to know." She managed, and gained the death knight's amused stare at the words.

"Have we found today's precious one?" He demanded, locking eyes with her. "I think we have. Oh, and she's a pretty one, too."

"Go fall off the terrace, child." She spat back and he laughed outright. It obviously didn't have quite the ominous air she had been hoping for.

"She's feisty." He laughed, leading the way deeper into the necropolis. "Mograine is this way. He's waiting."

Like Besseth gave a damn. She wanted as far away from all of this as she could get. Stormwind sounded like a fine idea. She couldn't breathe, and she felt miserably sick, clutching at Anselm's cloak like he was a lifeline.

"Mistress?" He whispered, but she had no words of explanation or comfort for him. There was no reason why she should feel so desperately wrong. I am not going to pass out in front of this fool. Not going to give Mograine the satisfaction, either. I am Besseth. I am stronger than all of this...

Mograine stood on the terrace, the same as the king had, and the image caused her head to spin. This was outside, it should be better, but it wasn't. She had a sudden, absurd urge to flee, to jump as she had told the other. "Mograine." Tibault stated. "You wished to see me?"

"I do. Tirion ignores me when I ask about her. I know you have her, and none of you will listen to me. Return Besseth to us."

She felt the furtive glances of several of her classmates; her background had never been hidden from them. They all knew already, so what had been the point?

"Mograine. I hate to be the one to state this quite so bluntly, but apparently Besseth is not terribly fond of you. She's shown no urge whatsoever to come to the Ebon Blade."

She felt cornered, watched, and could only maintain poise by focusing on the tile patterns on the floor. "Besseth is none too terribly fond of anyone who is not one of her children, Tibault. That is simply how she is. I accept that. But she belongs with us, not incarcerated by the Order."

Her knees were going liquid and her stomach crawled. She wasn't going to flee, jump, but all out projectile vomiting was a probability, and a dead faint not far behind it. Mograine, Tibault, even Anselm, felt like they were getting so distant, and the edges of her vision were graying. And with that distance came an increasing mutter, just out of earshot. She clenched Anselm's cloak until her fingers went numb.

"She is not incarcerated, Mograine. I give you my word on that." Tibault sounded vaguely amused, Besseth stood less than a score of paces away from Mograine, and he had not realized it yet.

"Then where is she?" Mograine's voice was edged with exasperation. He'd obviously been trying this for quite awhile, and had gotten nowhere.

"Besseth is currently in Acherus."

"Ahhhh..." Mograine spun, and his eyes coasted over her. He simply did not recognize her. It would be most amusing, if she felt even slightly better. "Those are all little paladins."

She fought to free her tongue, and finally forced words out. "I am Besseth, Mograine." She was vaguely aware that Tibault looked confused, lost, but Mograine did not. She made sense, to him, at least.

The muttering was growing increasingly louder, and with it, a splitting headache grew. It was too damned hot here, standing in the open, in the glare of the setting sun. Inside was cool, dark... safe.

"Noooooo..." The voice was a biting wind, and she was suddenly grasped by ice. "Do not open the way to him, Besseth. Leave here. Go away from Acherus. Now." She was yanked up, and forcibly moved along the floor, back towards the transporter.

"I see you all. I know your treachery and all your trespasses against me. You will be punished in due time. I shall seed the ground with your bones and raise them as the mindless. You are unworthy! All of you, unworthy! I see you through the eyes of the judge, and she sees how unworthy you all are."

There was sudden sharp clarity; this was not Acherus, but Naxxramas. The air echoed with the cries of the dying and the dead. Her heels ground the rime ice back into floating salt, which drifted and settled in her wake. The throne room was bright; his eyes were bright, as he watched her approach.

"My judge. You grow lovely."

"My king." He would rage. She would die for her crimes. It ended here. She was a traitor, as much as Mograine. She was the unworthy one. She had thrown everything away; at least Mograine still styled himself a death knight. She had nothing left.

"Mograine is a traitor. You have never betrayed me. I have let you go. Go in peace, Besseth... Go with my blessings." He gently motioned her away, and suddenly Besseth came back to herself, still sickeningly nauseated, wobbly, being dragged towards the transporter by a determined Amal'thazad. There was no fight left in her, and the lich was going in the way she preferred to go anyway. This had been a bad idea. She understood that, and why, now. Too much of Northrend, of the king's power, was still devoted to Acherus. She'd stepped too close to his bounds again. She was unconscious before the lich had made his way all off the transporter, plunged into safe darkness.

"That went...badly." Tibault sighed, resting a hand on Besseth's forehead. She was chilled, her hands ice cold in spite of the fact that Anselm had been trying to warm them for an hour. She was still deeply unconscious, and showed no signs of stirring from that state.

"I didn't understand a word she said." Anselm said, and Tibault shook his head. He, also, had not been able to comprehend the words that Besseth had spewed, her normally harsh and vaguely ominous voice deepened, elevated and imbued with power. He was certain, however, that Mograine had. The lich had been none too happy about them as well.

"Mograine?" He finally asked, since the man had been stubbornly silent since Besseth had lost control of herself. "What did she say that has you so bothered?"

Mograine sighed, turned from his study of the lands south of the camp; lands that Tibault knew all too well had once sheltered a bastion of the Scarlet Crusade. He moved closer, kneeling at Besseth's knees. "She said nothing." He finally admitted. "Her words were not her own. In fact, she referenced herself in the third person during it. She served as a herald of Arthas, those were his words. She is still tied to him."

"Still tied to him in a point of power for him." The lich, still hovering cautiously nearby, clarified. "She has never renounced him. She grows away from him, but she has never renounced him. She walks the path of a paladin now, take her far away from here. She stands too close to him, here. She stands too close to the grasp of her children, this close to the plaguedlands. We have tried hard to purge the Hold from his influence, but her children are strong and determined, deeply within his favor."

"Besseth is an initiate of the Order. A paladin in training." Tibault stated slowly, willing himself to believe that.

Mograine remained stubbornly, and by Tibault's sense, disapprovingly silent. "As I said, paladin..." The lich hissed, "She walks the path of a paladin now. Bringing her here was a mistake. She has not learned her way far enough as a paladin to combat his hold on her here."

"What possessed the lot of you to think Besseth would make a paladin?" Mograine finally snapped, and Anselm frowned at him, her hands still grasped in his.

"Because she shines." Anselm stated simply.

Besseth woke, feeling sickly. Her first groggy thought shaved ten years away, and left her back, lying next to her husband. Things worked for that... she felt ill and chilled. She did not sleep alone; there was a large presence next to her. The ground was hard and unpleasant, and she was viciously hungry.

Then the differences hit. Even asleep, her husband had never held her gently, and whoever she slept with, did. His arm was slung around her with great care. He did not snore like a skep full of angry bees; his breathing was deep and tranquil. He didn't stink. She opened a wary eye... who was this one? There was a glint of gold on his hand, he wore a signet ring, which made him higher quality than most willing to cough up silver to bed her.

"Milord?" She asked, groggily, sleepy and still very off balance. She was quite ill today, it would seem...

"Milord?" He chuckled into her hair. "There's a first. Good morning, Besseth. You're awake, finally."

"Tibault?" It clicked suddenly into place, and she turned in his grasp to face him. "Why? I mean...?" In the seven months since she'd stood down at Light's Hope, he'd never touched her unless it was necessary, and then it had been innocent. Now, to wake up in his arms seemed wrong.

"We couldn't get you to warm up. Anselm and I have been doing our best to keep you as warm as possible, but it hasn't been easy."

"Acherus."

"Not sure if it was going there, or being dragged down the hall by the lich, but something did not sit well with you. You collapsed, and have slept the past four days. Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous."

He chuckled again. "There's a word I never thought I'd hear you use. I'll go get you something." He was gone for just moments when she felt Mograine near, and she sighed in blatant disgust.

"Mograine."

"Besseth." There was an edge of unwilling amusement in his voice, and she gracelessly flopped over to stare at him. He sat on a stool near the tent flap, watching her intently. "Funny." He said, with the air of a man who knew he was about to put his foot in his mouth, but couldn't resist. "I would have never thought you were a blonde. Nor so...healthy...looking."

She sighed, men were all the same. Even Mograine. "I'm blonde. Very observant. And the Order feeds me well. What do you want?"

"I wanted to be certain that this is truly your desire, Besseth. I know you are not overfond of me, as your paladin keeper notes, but you are still one of the knights who rode with me at Light's Hope. You should have a place in the Ebon Blade, training our new young ones."

"I have a child now, Mograine. I will not leave him until he is ready for me to pull away. And I have no interest in the Ebon Blade."

"Always so prickly. You're too full of vinegar to be a paladin, Besseth. Why are you playing like this? You're a death knight, same as I. Same as all the others who came onto the field with me. Surely they haven't managed to break you?"

She floundered out of the bedroll, standing on wobbly legs. This was not a discussion she wanted to have lying on her side while he loomed over her. It was also not a discussion she wished to have clad only in her chemise... but someone, at some point in time, had removed her gear and placed her in one. "The answer is no, Mograine. I will not play this game. I will either be a death knight, truly, or not at all. No middle ground. You cannot scream that you are a death knight, channel the king's gifts, and then on the other hand say you have scorned him. If you truly have, then leave it all behind. Leave the necropolis. Leave it all. Start anew..."

He leaned back, watching her warily. "As you have?"

"I've given it an honest attempt, at least. If I cannot be a death knight, then I will reach for something else..."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Besseth, you fool. You stood on the floor of the Ebon Hold and gave voice to me as a herald of Arthas, and now try to tell me you are meant to be a paladin. Have you lost your mind?"

"We've all lost our minds, Mograine." She sighed, "It's what keeps us going in the mornings." If their lives weren't tempered by insanity, they'd have broken years ago. "Try taking me away from my child and I will destroy you. That does not change, whether or not that child is destined to be one of the king's risen knights, or a paladin of Azeroth. They are all that matters."

"Have you had any contact with them since you were taken at Light's Hope?" He asked, and she knew exactly what he wanted. He sought to recruit those still serving the king into the service of the Ebon Blade. He'd not hidden that. Her nine would be a gift beyond belief.

"Define contact." She muttered, and he watched her as she threw on a tunic and breeches. "They watch me. I know that. But they've not contacted me outright..."

"Do you feel them watching, or do you know?"

"I've seen Khraben's geist a handful of times since I stood down." She stared at the blank wall of the tent. That was one geist she'd recognize without fail. "My children will not turn traitor, Mograine, much as you'd like them to. And I will not ask it of them." They belonged exactly where they were. She would not break what she had built by asking them to betray the king she had raised them to adore.

"They stand between us and our goals, Besseth. Freeing Azeroth of the Lich King's grasp. You have left his service, even if you have not renounced him. Paladin. That will put you on the ground within grasp of those so called children of yours, and we'll see how much love they give you then."

"So called?" She'd loved each and every single one of them. Devoted her time, obsession and heart to their growth.

"So called. You want children, Besseth?"

She stared back at him warily and he laughed at her expression. "You want children? Go give that paladin..." He jerked his chin in the direction that Tibault had left in, "What he wants. While you're still young enough to bear him one. Or the younger one, he'd be more than happy as well. Then you'd have children, truly."

"Enough of that, Mograine." Tibault's voice was dark, cautious. "Do not remind her of what she cannot have." He stood in the open flap of the tent, plate in hand.

"That's the point, Tibault. She can have it. She just won't reach for it until it's too late, and you won't ask for it all the same. So precious, so senseless."

"We take things one step at a time." Tibault noted slowly, placing the plate down on the small table beside him. "Perhaps we can go that far. Perhaps not. I'm just happy she's hale and whole again..."

"Liar." Mograine chuckled, the word almost lacking venom. "Good luck to the pair of you. And remember, Besseth, should this fail, you always have a place to go to."

She wasn't certain about that one. Originally, she would have said Northrend, but her feelings about that were not as pure as they had been. Here? No. So many reasons to stay away. Her options seemed to be contracting around her, leaving her deeply in the grasp of the Order.

"I will not fail, Mograine." She stated simply, and was rewarded by the simple pride in Tibault's eyes. She would go far away, back to Stormwind, and become what she had begun to be.


	11. Chapter 11

The sharpening breeze cut through the lists, and Besseth sighed in a mix of utter boredom and a growing anticipation. So much talk. Such little doing. As if they didn't already know how important this was. Call the mount. Call the weapon. The final step before they knelt to become a true paladin. There was nothing to say about it, but the trainers somehow managed to wax, if not poetic, then vociferously, about the importance of this day.

"Anselm Tiegan."

He would not fail. He could not fail. He'd had the best, and it showed. Tibault watched him from the side of the list, his gaze intent. "Call your mount."

Almost before the command was given, it was there. No surprise. Besseth studied the grass trying to grow in the packed sand of the list field. Call the mount, yes. His was as great as she would expect. Call the weapon... She watched, rapt, as he called the weapon... a great, golden warhammer. He grinned like a child at Winter's Veil, and she chuckled. He'd earned it.

"Besseth Southcross." That was a different thing all together. Earned? Had she really, honestly earned this? Was it finally going to fall apart after all this time, all this effort? She looked straight into Tirion's level eyes... he had never foundered in his faith in her. Neither had Tibault. Anselm. "Call your mount."

She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch this. It would be the same small dreadsteed she had ridden in the Scourging and beyond. Worse, it would be nothing at all. There was a sudden murmur from the watchers, she felt a presence beside her, but was still too fearful to look. "Call your weapon."

There was a weight in her hands, odd for one who had wielded an axe for a decade. She opened her eyes... there was a cold length of shining steel in her hands, a sword. She stared at it, puzzled. A sword? And the massive shadow of a great charger which blotted out the sun, a wall standing next to her. It was easily as large as the monster that Anselm had summoned, with smoldering eyes and an iron gray coat.

"Besseth is quite impressive."

Tibault did not dignify that with a response, watching her lead her shining new charger off of the list field. "She failed none of her tasks, Highlord." That was also putting it mildly. With the minor exception of her little trip to Acherus, she had never failed to shine at her tasks. If she wasn't in the same class as Anselm, she would be hands down the finest paladin of this class. Now, she was in a toss up with him.

"No signs that things are not as they seem?" Tirion asked, watching her meet up with an ecstatic Anselm. She accepted an exuberant embrace from the young paladin, and Tibault frowned. Mograine's words at the encampment beneath Ebon Hold had hit a little too close for his comfort. It was just his luck to find a woman who made his breath short and his heart burn, who had been so badly abused that she would not give him a second glance, even though she lived beneath his roof. Soon, he wouldn't even have the excuse he had used with himself... that it was immoral to become involved with a student of his. Besseth ceased to be that tomorrow morning...

"Except for what happened when we took her to the Ebon Hold, no."

"Hhhmnmm. It is perhaps not wise to push that. Like it or not, she has claws in her soul. It would be better to send her against a common foe for us and the Scourge.

"The Legion."

"The Legion. Outland is far, far from Arthas. Perhaps Besseth would do well that truly distant from him, and his."

"Hmmm." Tibault muttered, feeling the Highlord's gaze upon him.

"Tibault?"

"Nothing, Highlord."

Tirion leaned against the railing which marked the outermost edge of the lists, his eyes back on Besseth. She had her back to the pair of them, her attention still squarely focused on Anselm. "So that is how it is." The Highlord noted, and Tibault grimaced. Hiding anything from the man was an impossibility, as always. "She is worthy, Tibault. Tomorrow will make her moreso, adult, free."

"Maybe she is free. Maybe she is not." He'd paid close attention to several statements made by Besseth, and he'd gotten contradictory information. "She was married before the plaguing."

"I was aware of that."

"She refers to her marriage as past, but refers to her husband in the present tense. I get the impression she doesn't consider him gone."

That appeared to worry Tirion more than anything Tibault had told him. The Highlord had handled the story of her bellowing out Arthas's words at Ebon Hold better than he took those words. "Their marriage was not a happy one, I've gathered." He said, his words guarded, and Tibault did not bother to rein back the harsh bark of laughter that statement brought.

"From what Besseth will admit to, it was brutal."

"Hhmmm." Tirion's grizzled brows dropped lower. "She lived in Lordaeron? Close to Light's Hope, I was told?"

"Yes."

"There were many records recovered from Light's Hope, Tibault. See if you can find something in the ones we brought back from there. And..." He shrugged. "There are many ways to end a marriage. Besseth considers it done, which is more than half the battle. A divorce. An annulment..."

"Putting a sword in his hand and telling him to stand for his crimes..."

Tirion sighed. "That, too. Hardly sporting to send him up against those who would champion Besseth, or worse, against Besseth herself, but a valid point still. Go see if the information is there, Tibault. Then we go to Besseth with this. I will not go behind her back. But Tibault, she is not so far gone from us that a good man could not find a place in her heart."

Besseth slept. She might have been the only one in her class to accomplish that feat, but she had. She woke to a pure, beautiful day, listening to the sounds of the house she had begun to take for granted... Two deep, male voices downstairs, both whom she loved in differing ways, muted laughter. The sounds of the Order stirring outside.

She crawled out of bed, staring at herself in the glass mirror hanging on the wall. It showed a face she had once grown to hate, that of a lovely woman with wide brown eyes, and a thick braid of honey blonde hair. But that was the face that would gain her the smile she was beginning to notice cross Tibault's face every time he saw her.

I don't know if I'm ready to go there. That would mean letting go of things she wasn't certain she was willing to let go of. Was it time to grow up that much? "Bah." She grumbled, dressing and going downstairs. She'd worry about that after breakfast, after today.

"You're awake." Tibault greeted, placing breakfast on the table. He was a good cook; she'd have to give him that. And yes, he wore that smile. "Now that I have both of you here, I wanted to let you know how proud I am of you two."

Proud of her. It was a puzzling idea. Had anyone ever been proud of her before? No. She didn't think so. The true king had valued her most times, giving her what she required without question, but she'd never gotten any pride from him. Her children, no, not either. They wanted to be, but were not content with what she had been. "Thank you, Tibault." She breathed, taking her seat at the foot of the table. She'd worry about all this in due time. Right now, she was busy.

The Order's chapel was packed, it was small for the crowd within it, but Tirion had always insisted on taking the oaths of his paladins within it, rather than the cavernous depths of Stormwind's cathedral. "Besseth." He breathed a greeting when it was her turn, resting his gauntleted hands on her bare ones clutching the quillions of her blade. "Welcome to the Order today, my sister." He murmured, then began to project his voice to the rear of the Chapel, walking her through the final oaths of a paladin of Azeroth.

Tibault frowned, turning the pages over in his hands. He had found the records of Besseth's birth...she appeared as Bessbeth Southcross, thirty four years ago, and was counted among the census, four years later as Besseth Southcross. He found the records of her mother's death, when she was eight. He could even pinpoint when she had left her father's farm and moved to another, owned by one John Medlyn. From there, until the Fall, she was listed as part of his household, but never as his wife. All the information was present, and it wasn't there.

He sighed, tucking the volume under his elbow and rising to find Tirion.

"Did you find it?" Tirion demanded without greeting when he saw Tibault, and the great book with him.

"I think so." Tibault rested the battered book on Tirion's desk. "I don't believe Besseth was ever truly married under the high law. The union was not consecrated, I gather. It was common law." And thereby, under the Order's view, meant little. If there was no oath before a church official, then Besseth was not married. She had no ties to another which should keep Tibault at bay. No oaths for him to respect.

"Bring her in. It's time to get the truth of this. I do not like the idea of one of my paladins tied into a union that could cause such problems. And, as a paladin, she'll be listed in our rosters, and Stormwind's censuses. We need to know."

Tibault nodded, sending a page after her and waiting. She arrived quickly, her expression guarded. "Lord Tibault. Highlord? I was told you needed to see me?" She asked, and took the seat beyond Tirion when the Highlord motioned her to sit.

"What is the current status of your marriage, Besseth?" Tirion asked without greeting or pleasantry, and she blanched pale as the first day that Tibault had ever seen her.

"It doesn't exist." She managed after a long and awkward pause. "It has no status."

Tirion stared at her, opening the record book before her. "You are this Besseth Southcross?" He asked, and she leaned forward to study the page. She nodded assent after a long pause, slamming the book closed, her expression going empty and expressionless. It did not sway Tirion, who remained calm and determined in spite of it. "You are familiar with high law, Besseth. You did quite well in those classes. And you are aware that, as a paladin, you are supposed to live those laws, be an example of them. We can find no records of a marriage, Besseth. Was it common law?"

She stared back at him, before she broke eye contact and glanced in Tibault's direction. "It was. There was no consecration. No oaths. My father owed him money, and I was the payment. Now I know that no official of the Church would have blessed such an arrangement."

Tirion nodded, obviously unsurprised. Tibault clenched his back teeth together and stared blankly at the floor. The Highlord would get the answers he wanted, and get them from her with much less anger. And if she did get angry, he'd prefer it not be at him. Tirion did not live with her. He did. "John Medlyn." Tirion continued, and if were possible, she went even more pale, a bright crescent of blanched pink rising on her cheeks. "You don't even claim his name..."

"No. I don't. My name is Southcross. Why are you asking this, Highlord? Certainly you would not try to hold me to the marriage...?"

Tirion sat, running his fingers over the cover of the book. "My fears were simple, Besseth. From what you have told us, you were married to a man who never deserved you. He was at least partially responsible for your decision to follow the Lich King as truly as you did. If he was to show up now, and if you were truly wed, he could create chaos. My thoughts, if you were truly married still, was to petition the church for an annulment. End it all, release that tie upon your soul. Allow those around you who might seek a more intimate relationship with you the freedom to attempt it unfettered. You are surrounded by paladins, Besseth. An oath is sacred, but if none was given, then it does not matter. Where is he?"

"Who?" Besseth echoed, an edge of panic audible in her voice. Her glance kept a constant flickering between Tirion and the doorway. The Highlord did not dignify the question with an answer, and she blinked. "John?" She finally demanded, her voice breaking.

"Yes. John. Does he live still?"

"He... ran afoul of one of my children, Highlord. They went hunting him, the three of them that I had then. They...caught him. He is, as I said, not an issue."

Tirion chuckled, shaking his head. "I should have guessed." He finally sputtered. "Do I want to know?"

She studied her hands, folded in her lap, the gleam of her shiny new signet ring blatant even in the shadows. "John's a geist now." She finally stated. "He wears my so called wedding ring around his neck so that he will never forget what he pays for."

"I'm sorry, Besseth."

It had taken him over an hour to commit himself to warily climb the stairs. She had felt him come to the bottom several times. Felt him stare up into the stairwell. Decide to wait and then retreat. Return. He finally climbed them slowly, as if he expected her to scream at him when he reached the step she considered too close. He had finally made his way in, and now stood just within her doorway, obviously close enough to it to beat a quick retreat if he felt he needed to. "I needed to know."

The part of her which still was Besseth, Champion of the Scourge whispered a negative. Her secrets were just that, hers, and secret. She didn't need to share them with bright, shiny little paladins trying to get in her bed. The other part, Besseth of the Argent Crusade, understood his questions all too well. If she was truly still wed, then he would be held away from her until that could be resolved. He would keep her marriage, even as broken as he understood it to be, sacred. "I know." She finally whispered.

"I...love you, you know." He sighed, as if they were the hardest words he'd ever said. "I know you'll turn away from me now, but I had to say it before you were gone. Good luck, Besseth."

He turned, and she frowned. He was going to still leave it up to her. Why she was surprised, she wasn't certain. She was too used to men who pushed, and it was obvious he wasn't going to. He really would just walk away now, in spite of everything. He really would just turn his back on the past year, on his freshly stated feelings, and walk out of her life. "Where do you think you're going?" She asked, sitting up in bed and dropping the pillow she'd been clutching to the floor.

"I've said all there is to say, Besseth." He muttered, his back still turned. "You made it plainly clear, in the very beginning; you had no interest in this. You prefer undead males for their lack of...urges...I believe you said. I'm not undead. I don't lack those urges. I'm sorry. You've done absolutely nothing to show me otherwise. It's strictly..."

The damn fool was simply going to talk it to death. Besseth sighed, rising to her feet and coming up behind him. Why she was nervous, she had no clue. It wasn't like she was some blushing virgin, untouched. She knew this man much more than she had any before, including her husband. She knew his heart, and his soul. Maybe that was it. "You talk too much, Tibault." She stated, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her ear against his back. She could hear the deep pound of his heart, the rush of his breathing. He smelled good. He felt good. It was all...good.

Anselm let himself into the silent house, the sky at the east lighting in false dawn. He had to be cautious, Besseth was a frantically light sleeper, and Tibault was not much deeper a one than she. The first thing he noted, with a suddenly sinking heart, was that Tibault's bedroom door hung open. "Damn." Anselm muttered. He was an adult, he should be able to stay out without one of the watchers waiting up for him like this... He moved around the chimney, more than half expecting Tibault to be waiting. The chairs facing the fire were empty, and the fire had banked down a long time ago. No one waited.

He peeked into Tibault's room and it was quiet, his bed had not been slept in. So either Tibault had not slept in the house at all, perhaps he was at the Keep, or in Northrend, or... Anselm glanced up at the ceiling. Or he had finally bowed to the obvious and could be found in Besseth's bed. Interesting idea.

It was not an idea that Tibault had ever wanted to hear, throwing up bluster that it would be inappropriate to try with Besseth; she was a student of his... It had taken a good while before Tibault had admitted the rest. "She's been harshly used, Anselm. Don't try. Don't even hint. Let her heal." Fair enough. There was a wide eyed twitch that Besseth showed on occasion that lent weight to those few words, but she had never shown that vaguely hunted expression around Tibault.

Anselm slid up the stairs, listening every inch of the way. The house was not completely empty; he could feel someone was here. They belonged, as well. His guess was Besseth, she felt that way, and he rarely sensed Tibault's presence like this. Her door was firmly closed, and he contemplated it for a long moment. Senseless curiosity was unbecoming, but... He grasped the latch, carefully moving it up and nudged the door open a few inches.

Besseth was indeed at home, curled up on her side, asleep facing the door. She was also not alone, Tibault slept in the same position beside her, his arm wrapped around her. Anselm gave a tiny hmmph under his breath, pushing the door tight and gently dropping the latch back. Finally. He grinned from ear to ear, shaking his head as he carried on to his own, empty, bed.


	12. Chapter 12

Tibault knew the original plan had been to put Besseth far from Northrend. It made too much sense, which meant he would have been looking at yet another tour in Outlands. Pit the newly defected champion of the Scourge against the forces of the Burning Legion, and not ask if she would truly fight them.

He grimaced into the blowing, skittering snow. Besseth slept beside him, deeply bundled in the combined warmth of three bedrolls, the only part of her which was visible was her forehead. The reality had sent the freshly sworn Besseth Southcross straight to Northrend, pretty much on the first available boat.

"You worry." Anselm grumbled, huddled against the cold. "You've been here before."

Yes. Tibault had. More than once. And that experience told him it was definitely the sort of place he did not wish to bring shiny new paladins to. Besseth undoubtedly knew the lands, and what they contained, with much greater depth than he did. She'd lived here for years.

"I have. And she most certainly has." He'd expected more ambivalence from Besseth, but her response was to pack and go without comment. "I worry about bringing her back here." She was going to be so damned close to those things that he wanted to keep her distant from. But the order was simple; hers was one of the names on the list. His. Anselm's. Whoever that idiot was who had penned them... Tibault contemplated violence for a long moment, but the perpetrator was safely obscured from him. Those orders had placed him in Northrend again, with a defector of the scourge and the brightest young paladin produced by the Order in the last decade. They may as well have painted him bright red, with a glamour above his head which read target.

"Stay close to Besseth." He finally stated. She was the true veteran here, well beyond him. He'd spent six months on the ground in Northrend. She'd spent years. "Do what she says, when she says to, ask questions later."

The wards that Ellorie had set months earlier, at the loss of her mother, rippled into life. The first daughter of Besseth regarded them steadily for a long moment, feeling Bredit's attention lock as well. Besseth had returned to Northrend. The boys ostensibly had been keeping an eye on her, and Declan was correct, Raien and Khraben were best suited to that. The wards kept up on wherever she had been kept had proved stubbornly immobile, and Lori could only assume that the pair did better than she did. Lately, however, there had been an undercurrent between the twins, undisputed male rulers of the family, and the combination of Raien and Khraben. They knew something, and they weren't sharing.

"Bred?" She queried, knowing that the dwarf had already begun the spell. What, precisely, was going on here? Now, she could know. Besseth was in Northrend. Northrend was their domain. Their brother's silence would not hold here, nor would Stormwind's deep magical protections...

"Working on it." Bredit grumbled. "We got no word she was coming back to us..."

No, the four who knew remained stubbornly silent and noncommittal about when they thought the mother would return to them. Declan and Diarmid played impassively serene with the best of them, but Raien was disturbed. And Khraben had not been seen in months.

"There."

Ellorie nodded, gazing at the scrying surface before her. A ship, sailing into port. Besseth arrived home...by ship? By a Kul'tiras built vessel, flying the flags of the Alliance and the Argent Crusade? Were the paladins foolish enough to bring a war prisoner back? Think they could hold her in the true king's domain? Hold her against the might of her children?

"Nice paladin." Bredit murmured, when the plank went down, and the first of the ship's passengers disembarked. It was indeed a nice paladin, old enough for all the stupid silliness to have worn from him. The shine was gone, replaced by a true luster. He had a tail of russet brown hair, focused hazel eyes, strong features. His gear had seen hard use; he'd been in the field for a large portion of his service. No dandified official for the Argents, but a warrior.

He was followed by a sight that caused Ellorie's breath to catch. That was so right, and yet so horrifically wrong all at the same time. My brother. The tenth child of Besseth...was a paladin.

"Hell, no." Bredit hissed, and Ellorie blinked. The tenth child of Besseth was a paladin...as was Besseth herself. It took a long, long moment to accurately identify the woman who descended the plank after the pair, even though she should be as familiar as any. She stood taller than Ellorie recalled, heavy in flesh and muscles. Her hair was thick, tea blonde, bound in an intricately interwoven braid. She was clean, and she accepted the touch and aid of not only her child, but the older man with grace and ease. She wore the tabard and armor of a true paladin, and it didn't feel false to Ellorie. She was, in a word, glorious.

"Why?" Bredit cried. That was not the question that Ellorie would have uttered... How? would have been more accurate. How had the Argent Crusade so completely subverted Besseth Southcross into this? A year. All it had taken was a year, and they had broken her.

"Why what?" Diarmid's voice came from behind, and Ellorie steeled herself. Either one of the twins could be a problem. They'd obviously known this well ahead, and had failed to prevent it. The quel'dorei pulled even with the pair, his stare locked on the scry. "Damn." He hissed. "This would be so easier if she was as inept at that as she was with being one of us. Your thoughts, Ellorie?"

"That's a paladin who has access to the memories of a true follower of the King. Diarmid, she has not renounced him! I can still feel the link with him... it's buried, but still there! He still accepts her, she has not turned her back on him... she will pass through many of our defenses like this. Why? Why did we allow this? Why hasn't the master broken this?"

"We have, as always, been ordered to leave Besseth alone in the hands of the Argents."

Ordered, by the master. He didn't have to say it, but that was the only force Ellorie was aware of which would keep them at bay. "We have left Besseth to fall to becoming a paladin. To follow two of them around like a tamed dog." Bredit snapped, and Ellorie shook her head, seeing the ties between the three. Hardly. Besseth was the strength, the chains, which tied that threesome together and gave it strength.

"This is a dangerous game, Diarmid." She stated, and he glanced at her. "If she fails to fall, if she stands with the strength of another child at her back, and a love at her side... we have lost her. She will hate us."

"You think we have not contemplated this, Ellorie? Worked out the permutations? Besseth is mortal, living, and has a lover now. She has been healed by the finest. How long before she truly has children of her own? Born of her flesh? Our stance was that we wanted to make Besseth glorious by spilling her blood and raising her, taking from her the one thing she has always fought to protect. The Argents have made her glorious by renewing her tie to that thing, affirming its value."

"What can we do?"

He turned to her, then shrugged slightly. "Pray he's right. That she will fall, and hold onto this glory as the best of the fallen paladins do. Pray she brings her newest child and her lover with her, and that they also hold onto it."

Besseth expected more when she set a foot back on Northrend. She expected to feel something... expected the weight of the King's attention, some sickening feeling that to return as a traitor marked her for immediate, unwanted focus. But she got none of that. It was even a fairly lovely day to greet her back.

"I thought Northrend was cold." Anselm noted. "This is... wonderful."

There was a set, dead edge in Tibault's eyes, and Besseth knew exactly what he was thinking. Certainly, this portion of Northrend was lovely, with great trees, crisp air, and a soaring mountain backdrop. And in that backdrop was Icecrown, and it was most certainly not lovely. "This area is, yes." She finally said, when Tibault remained stubbornly silent. She pointed northwest, unerring in her ability, "There lies Icecrown. And it is not."

"And you're still fine with being here?" Tibault finally asked the question he'd been waiting for. She still stared unfailingly at Icecrown, before nodding slowly. "I feel nothing out of sorts, Tib. No dire threat of death above and beyond the fact that this is Northrend. No joyous return home to the grasp of my family. I feel the power here, but I'm certain you do as well." How could he not? So much power rested here, the might of the Scourge, the dragons, great old spirits. The crown of the world had attracted many great entities, and now Besseth had returned to them. She sighed, yanking her gaze from Icecrown and giving Tibault a smile. Enough of that. Things were going to be hard enough without dwelling on the past. "There's an inn." She stated, shaking her head. Somehow, even that was wrong. All the amenities of home, here, in Northrend. "Go see about rooms before the others..." Her eyes fell on the other passengers, still pointlessly milling on the docks, "Come to their senses and beat you there."

"Of course, milady." He half heartedly snapped to attention, but left immediately to carry out the request. She was correct, and if he didn't hurry, they'd be sleeping in the commons or the barracks, and neither was conducive to the relationship they were growing.

"I'll start with the gear." Anselm sighed, turning his attention to the increasing pile of equipment that was being unloaded beside them. They didn't travel as lightly as Besseth was accustomed to, but the days of being immune to the cold and feeding from the runed weapon were over. Now she ate an incredible amount, fueling a body working overtime, and the cold bit through her just as it had before. And Anselm, still in the last edge of his growth spurts to adulthood, standing easily three hands taller than she, and five stone heavier could put her eating habits to shame. Tibault was also massive, and ate like it. If they were any indication, the Argent Crusade push into Northrend ran on its stomachs and its heavy clothing. She was certain she didn't like that weakness, but it was beyond her control. Her runed weapon was gone, somewhere, and the protection of the Lich King's magics had faded. She was just the same as any other paladin on the ground here.

She sighed, grasping her own packs and gracelessly shouldering them, falling into step behind Anselm. She had returned, and that return seemed to be unnoted. She knew that was a good thing, the less attention she attracted would logically be the better, but it left an emptiness in her heart. All that time. All that service. All that dedication, and she had been overlooked again.

The tavern was packed, and she growled under her breath. She didn't want the barracks, just a line of cots where she would be forced away from Tibault's warmth and comfort. Welcome to Northrend, indeed.

Tibault appeared, moving through the crowd. "Got one." He muttered when she was close enough to hear him. "Last one. We'll have to share with the little one..." His eyes fell on Anselm, who had at least a hand on him and probably a stone or two, and shrugged. She understood the shrug, there would be a bed, and by unspoken rules, it would be her bed. Tibault would sleep beside her, and Anselm would take the floor. He would also be gracious enough to make himself scarce when he ought to. It worked much better than their other options.

"Good." She gave the faraway mountain range one last thought, then spun to follow him within, burdened by the weight of her gear. Inside, it was an inn. Little difference between it and the few she'd had experience with on Azeroth and that in itself was both hilarious and a little disturbing. Did they honestly believe this would work? That they could set down roots here, on the Crown of the World, and that he would continue to overlook them? Damnable fools, all, and she was now counted amongst their number.

Welcome to Northrend, lord and lady paladin!" The innkeep bade, his gaze sharp and measuring. Were they trouble? Not what they appeared to be? So many flooded into Northrend, and not all of them were legitimate. They were less likely to fail an inspection, they had arrived on the Crusade's ship, in full sight of the docks, but they still warranted the stare. "You do us honor."

Besseth remained stubbornly silent, wondering how much of that honor was the heavy chill of the gold she carried in her pockets. She disliked the weight of his eyes, the carefully veiled interest there. A return to herself, and the health that the Order had gifted her with, was a double edged blade. She felt whole, but it had brought back the looks she could do without. Only with Tibault was she comfortable with them. This one was hoping she wasn't what she appeared to be, that she was no paladin with a steel edged temper and the willing ability to use it. That she was just a woman, traveling under the protection of two large male paladins, who would carry on north and leave her here, alone, without them. Tibault obviously caught it as well, his brows lowered and he glowered at the innkeep.

"Thank you." He drawled, just on the fine edge of politeness. "Tibault. Besseth." His eyes grazed over her face, "And Anselm. Of the Argent Crusade. We appreciate your hospitality.

Anselm made a deep growl, which could have been construed as either affirmation, greeting, or threat, when Tibault dropped his name. He made the point further by grinning at Besseth as he grasped the straps of two of her bags. "Come on, Mom. I'll give you a hand upstairs with this."

She fell into step behind him, feeling Tibault's larger, older presence behind her. "Ugly." Anselm noted when the three of them had made it into the upstairs hallway.

"Truly." Tibault agreed, "But he will try nothing."

Of course not. The common room had been filled with the worthy, called to battle here. She'd guess almost half were Crusade, and that percentage would rise when the ship emptied. Outnumbered, out gunned, all the man could do was look.

The room was much better than Besseth had been expecting, larger, cleaner than she'd been dreading, with a fairly spacious bed and a smaller single bed. Anselm dropped the bags he toted onto the floor with a groan, and Tibault did the same. She had to agree, it was good to put them down...even better when Tibault came behind her and rested an arm around her shoulders. "Sorry." He murmured, "I know this takes a lot of getting used to. And you never wanted to get used to this in the first place."

"I don't want to be lovely." She sighed, and he rested his forehead in the curve of her shoulder.

"I know, Bess. I know."

"You like it this way." It was a spiteful statement, but she was in the mood to be so. Anselm sensed the change, his wary eyes jumping to them. He took one good, long look, and was gone, muttering a vague excuse about getting an ale first...putting away his gear later.

Tibault remained still for a long moment, obviously weighing his responses carefully. "I find you beautiful." He admitted cautiously. "I am honored you took me as your companion. Hopefully, one of these days we can be more than that, for nothing would make me more proud than having you stand beside me, in the Chapel of Stormwind and become my wife. Nothing would make me happier than to see you ripen with my child. But, Besseth, I found you that morning on the fields of Light's Hope. I saw the Light within you then, and what you looked like on the outside meant little. I saw the Light. I saw the Hope, which you still contained. I loved you then, and I fought for you then. I will not lie to you, Bess. This..." He ran fingers down her arm, "Is a glory. And I revel in it. But I love you, no matter what you look like. You're angry with him, not at me. Don't take it out on me."

The room had stilled. Everything had stilled, including Besseth's most stubbornly beating heart. Surely he hadn't just said what she thought he'd said? "You'd...marry me?" She stuttered, awkwardly. Nothing was a further step from what she had been led to believe her destiny as one of the true king's champions was than settling down with a paladin husband and bearing a couple of children with him.

"I most certainly would." He sounded vaguely offended at the question. "You are fine enough to be my sister under arms. Fine enough to live in my house, and fine enough to bed and call companion. I know we are not young anymore, but we might still be blessed with a child."

She turned in his grasp, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning into his comforting bulk. It was easy to forget just where she was, to put Northrend out of her mind, if just for a little while.

Anselm was not surprised to find the pair of them, dead asleep in bed, the gear still piled untouched on the floor. Was this how it was? What was so obvious to those around them, that Besseth and Tibault were made for each other, they needed to high tail it to Stormwind, petition for marriage and work on a baby while they still had time, seemed to be obscured to the pair of them. He sighed, rolling into the empty bed under the window, staring at the dim ceiling above him. At least it was better here than the barracks, or worse, the commons...almost quiet and almost peaceful, close to the two he trusted and cared about more than any other. He was drifting, almost asleep when he heard the shutter creak above him. He peeled an eye open, willing himself to remain still. A long, dark, utterly silent form poised on the window well above him, the tail end of a noose hanging in the air just within Anselm's grasp. Everything in the young paladin's comprehension screamed that this was not living, even though it did not seem dead. It didn't have the overwhelmingly putrid smell he had noted before, it seemed intact.

It hopped from the window well to land, still silently, on the pile of gear between Anselm's bed, and the other bed. It waited for a moment, tilting its head quizzically, and Anselm could hear the hiss of its breath as it contemplated the bed. "Beshesh." It snarled, jumping again, its trajectory would land it right on top of Tibault, not Besseth, a length of silver darkness appearing in its hand.

Anselm howled, surging to his feet, but Besseth reacted faster, hitting the form with a swift spell as she came to her knees in the bed. Tibault also moved much faster than Anselm had been counting on, rolling gracefully out of the bed to land on the floor. He backed up her cast with one of his own, striking the shadowed form with a sudden, dazing display of light. It squealed in anger and pain, and jumped for the window again, knocking past Anselm as it went. He was not prepared for just how strong the lithe form was, pushed aside, and then it was gone

Tibault stood, and Anselm studied the floor when he realized neither of them was clothed. "What was that?" He sputtered, sensing Besseth pull a tunic over her head

"Geist." Tibault growled, moving to the window and staring out of it. "Long gone by now. Besseth?"

She joined him, resting on her knees on Anselm's bed as she gazed out. "John. It was John. He serves one of my children now, not me.

"So they know you are here, now?" Tibault sighed, running a quick hand over her hair. She sighed, shaking her head.

"I assume they knew I was here when I got here. This may just be their way of double checking." She shook her head, pushing the shutters closed and tightly securing them. "I can no longer command him, Tibault. He'll keep coming, until Khraben calls him away or we destroy him."

Anselm glanced between the pair, Besseth seemed withdrawn, far away, while Tibault felt annoyed, concerned. So many questions... "Who's John? Who's Khraben?" He demanded, and Besseth glanced at him

"John. The geist." She jerked her chin in the direction of the window, and the path of the geist's flight from the inn. "My husband. And Khraben is the third of the children I created and raised to serve the one True King."

Tibault grimaced, and Anselm knew exactly what he didn't say. It was harsh to still hear her, after all this time, all those changes refer to Arthas as that. She didn't call Stormwind's king anything at all, and she had deigned to give that one any oath whatsoever. She was here under the auspices of the Argent Crusade, and nothing else.

"He's not your husband, Bess." Tibault had obviously chosen to argue the smallest, and most readily assailable argument in the whole mess of them. "Such is the ruling of the Church and the Order. Do me a favor, and stop calling it that. It was a failure as a man before, and now it is nothing but an abomination."

"True enough." She sighed, pushing away from the window. "He probably won't be back tonight. He'll try again later, some place more vulnerable, probably."

"And the child he serves?" Tibault pushed, and she shrugged.

"I don't know anymore."

"Bahd, bahd, bahd geist!" Khraben snarled, latching on to the noose and dragging the geist along behind him. The violence attracted the attention of Declan, lounging in the austerity of the tent fly, exactly as the troll had planned on it. Declan understood that, and stared.

"What has he done now?" He finally gave into the question that Khraben wanted asked. Their mother's erstwhile and so called husband made a superlative geist, but retained much of his prior soul. This made him often temperamental and difficult to control.

"He went after the mama's piece of man flesh, to kill him."

Declan sighed, watching the snow fly by. "Didn't go well. Tibault is nothing to take lightly." Tibault was enough of paladin to make even the eldest of Besseth's children give pause for thought.

The geist growled, hissed, until Khraben yanked him back into silence by his convenient leash. "Beshesh mine." It grumbled in the pause, and Declan regarded it through narrowed eyes. Still, after all this time, it had not let go of that very unfortunate belief. Even though it had given its life and its freedom for its crimes against her, it would not see her go. He considered it for a moment, then smiled, gently.

"By now, Besseth understands that she was never married to you."

The geist's dark eyes fell on his face, and it growled, deeper. But Declan Noonshimmer was not afraid of a mere geist, especially not one held by his younger, lesser, brother. "She wasn't." He continued, leaning back in his camp chair and folding his hands over his chest. "As a paladin, she surely now knows the laws to tell her that."

He felt Bredit come out behind him, and he half tilted his head to acknowledge her appearance, although he did not move to actually look at her. "She was not surprised to see it." Bredit stated. "She knows we watch her."

He nodded. Good. She was not immersed in her new life that she had forgotten them.

"She will marry that paladin. He pretty much just came out and asked her." Bredit did not try to bleed the disapproval out of her voice. Khraben looked annoyed at the words and the geist vibrated with silent rage

Declan considered it for a long moment, and then began to laugh. Sometimes, life was just too damned amusing. "Besseth will marry Tibault Kellemen."

"Kellemen?" Bredit echoed, horror in the syllables. "Does she know?"

"Does it matter? It's too late for that." Once Besseth committed, she was immobile. Learning she had just agreed to become a countess, well, it was a small obstacle that would not sidetrack her for long. The man's oaths and honor had kept him from marrying, from siring an heir for his great line, but now... He had found the woman for it. Declan frowned, staring at the smudge of storm clouds rising on the horizon. Tibault Kellemen, everything about the man breathed greatness. His family. His blood. His soul. His strength and his forbearance. Combine that with Besseth's gifts, and that pairing could spawn some of the most worthy of little ones to ever walk the lands of Azeroth... A prize above all. Such a dangerous game they played, but he guessed all games worth playing were. If this failed, then yes, Besseth could give the enemy hope and the great value of her soul, through her blooded children.

"Declan, I don't like this. There are too many things that can go wrong." He nodded without glancing at Bredit. She was correct. So much could go wrong. Killing her now, against her will, before any of it came to play would be the most cautious of responses, but he felt the true king's lack of interest in that idea. Still no. "I know. And my hands are still tied. We still leave Besseth alone, in the hold of the Argent Crusade."

The geist growled, and Declan chuckled, kneeling to insultingly pat its head. "Besseth is going to marry Tibault Kellemen." He did not bother to bleed the snide from his voice. "The man who makes her wail with joy in his bed. The man she loves. She'll bear him the children you denied her, while you rot and serve as the dog you are." He ended it with a not so gentle cuff to the hissing, snarling geist's face. "And she'll do it fairly soon."

Bredit coughed, and he glanced at her. The one time priest spread her hands warily, her face still. "Besseth has been healed a great long time. In that one's bed a good long time. And is with bairn as we speak."

The geist whined, and Declan rose to his full height, his glowing eyes moving back to the looming storm front. That declaration stirred the true king's interest, Declan could vaguely feel him respond, state something to the great lich in attendance, and the eldest child of Besseth knew his edict immediately. Besseth Southcross was to pass through the southern reaches of Northrend without harm. If they sent her further on, if she approached Icecrown, then the edict might change, but for right now, she was untouchable.

The nausea was familiar, and brought with a primal, visceral panic. She'd bled consistently since her healing, but that had ceased two months earlier. And now, this. It was foolish, if she was correct, Tibault would not harm her for it. He'd already stated he would consider it a blessing, he would move heaven and ground to protect her and his unborn, not come after her with a skin of raw grain liquor and a knitting needle. And Anselm, her child, would protect her.

She dressed, then tilted her head. While many of her gifts from the king had faded, lost in her rebirth, those the Light considered harmless had remained. She felt the cold again, for it was a natural response of her body, but many of her senses stayed intact. She felt the rising wait in the air, and frowned. A storm. A bloody big one, brewed in the snowy band of mountains northwest of them.

She moved downstairs, and it was quiet. Most of the occupants had moved on, only a handful of the Order still remained, Anselm, Tibault, the innkeep, and a couple of women serving the tables with long, resigned expressions. Besseth could guess what their true professions were, and they were getting few takers now that the merchanting caravans had gone. Paladins and whores were not a grouping that got along well.

"Morning, Mom." Anselm greeted, his eyes skipping between her pale face and the suddenly interested innkeep. "You don't look so good. It's a little late to get seasick. You going to be ready to go?"

Tibault also watched her warily, measuring, and she shrugged. Every bit of sanity, logic, screamed to just tell him. Have faith in him, and what he stood for, but that part of her broken years earlier whined and cried at the idea. It had always been easier to lose them earlier, to let John destroy them when they were still tiny, but she'd tried hiding them still.

"Tibault will not destroy his own child, nor any other man's. You are safe withhim. He will hold you up."

She caught her breath, forced into sudden stillness by the almost forgotten weight of the Lich King's words in her soul.

"And, as you already know, it is not safe to leave the protection of this place. A great storm brews in the mountains. It is glorious, but I can no longer see you pass safely through the rage of Northrend. When your blade fell from your grasp, you lost that."

The blade. The axe. It had been so long since she'd even wondered about it. It was still intact, that she understood. Had it been destroyed, she would have known instantly. Where...?

"Your children moved to recover your possessions from Tirion months ago. They care for them now."

"Besssssseth!" Tibault's deep growl and sudden shake dispelled the touch. "Wake up!"

"I am awake." She snapped back, and he raised a dubious brow.

"I felt his touch upon you, Bess. You were most certainly not awake. What does he want now, and does he know he's not going to get it?"

She stared at him. Such a fool, sometimes. So full of erroneous assumptions, and paladin bluster. "He's not?" She echoed, and he leaned back, watching her with suspicion. "You suggest I not follow his advice?" Anselm nodded easily, eagerly, but Tibault was wiser and infinitely more seasoned. He said nothing, just staring, waiting. "What, precisely, is his advice?" He finally asked when she didn't give into the staring match.

"That I tell you I am with child already. That you will hold me safe. And that we not leave here before that storm blows itself dead."

He dropped the tankard he'd been holding, straight to the floor, pure shock crossing his features. Anselm only chuckled, shaking his head and going back to eating his breakfast while he pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. "Sit, Mom." He almost ordered, and she complied. "I like how the expected outcome of this managed to stun him." He continued, not bothering to bleed the amusement from his voice.

"We are not young anymore, Anselm." Tibault regained enough of his senses to defend himself, and the younger man only shrugged

"Young enough to still get the job done, I'd say. My mother had her last after forty. You've got six years to have a couple of them... You say there's a storm coming

Besseth closed her eyes, sensing. Yes. A damn big one, currently brewing in the aptly named Storm Peaks. It would tear down the valleys, snowing in half the continent, and killing those foolhardy to be out on the roads. "Yes. We shouldn't leave."

Anselm sighed, pushing his meal away and standing. "I'll warn the Lodge master here, and he'll spread the news." He moved away, either oblivious to, or blatantly ignoring the appreciative stares that the bar maids gave him

Tibault rescued his empty tankard, resting it back on the table. "You think you've conceived?" He finally asked, dragging his gaze from the scarred table top to stare at her. His eyes were filled with naked fear and an equal dose of hope.

"Pretty certain, yes. I bled right before we left Stormwind, and have not since."

He grimaced, the slightest edge of a smile quirking his lips. That had been two months earlier, and shipboard travel was boring. They'd had a lot of time to amuse themselves on the journey.

"Damn. I'd hoped to marry you before this happened." He sighed, and she gave him the look that deserved. "I know, I know, you don't need to say it. If I really meant that, I would have done things differently. I just thought it would be...more difficult...than this."

Honestly, so had Besseth. Even understanding the phrase 'fully healed' did not truly make it sink in. "I know. As did I."

He stared at the table for a long moment. "And I had hoped to marry you in Stormwind. But I know Tirion is on the ground here in Northrend. I will ask him for the honor, if you'll agree to marry me

"Very romantic." She drawled, and he sent her a sad look. "I'm kidding." She said, and he shook his head.

"You can always marry him here. I'd love to see you married in the depths of the Cathedral of Darkness…"

That was a perversity she was not even going to give breath to. The true king was in a mood, indeed, and once again she had his attention. She sighed, swallowed the nausea and nerves down, and turned her attention to breakfast. The door behind her slammed closed, and she glanced back... by her guess, that would be the local Lodge master, striding towards their table.

"Tibault." The man stated, iron girding his voice. "The boy you sent claims a storm brews and warns us to take cover?"

Tibault nodded, motioning to the chair next to Besseth. "Yes. I have it on good authority we have one coming."

"Good authority." He took the chair, barely acknowledging Besseth's presence. "Every damned death knight in the area? They scream the same."

"I haven't spoken to any of the Ebon Blade here, yet." Tibault chuckled. "I arrived last night, and haven't left the inn. No, my..." He furrowed his brow slightly in thought, his eyes rising to Besseth's face. "Fiancée senses it coming

"Fi... What? A joke, Tibault?"

"No joke. This is Besseth Southcross. I believe she has agreed to do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"She has." A little toast downed made the rest of her breakfast seem bearable, and she gnawed on a sausage. "There's a big one brewing in the Storm Peaks. Surely the dragons will verify..?"

The man still seemed rather stuck on the whole fiancée thing, staring at her in ill disguised amazement. "The dragons do verify. They have given the same warnings, Lady Besseth. You belong to the Order?"

"I do. I finished my training this summer." Which made her a wet behind the ears, greener than the grass of Elwynn paladin, probably unworthy to be on the ground in Northrend, and definitely unworthy of the honor of being Tibault's bride. "I came...late...to the Order."

"Late to the Order." The voice was melodic, forceful, an edge of amusement clinging to it. Besseth had not sensed the speaker come at all, and startled. A male elf stood an arm's length behind her, so very close, his ornamented robes gleaming in the uncertain firelight. "That is one very guarded way of putting things, Lady Besseth Southcross." He took the step to put him right behind her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "I heard. I was not certain I could believe, but now I must. Welcome back to us, mother of the nine."

Dragon. Had to be. That explained everything and she went back to eating. "Thanks." She muttered, and he released her shoulder. "You also warn of the storm?"

She felt him turn to the direction it grew in, "We do. By now, this means we have three separate warnings of the same happening, Lord Stantos. One, from the Dragonflight. Two, from the Ebon Blade. And now, one from Besseth. Each of them alone should be taken seriously. All three of them together…"

"We have a war effort going on here."

"Northrend does not care." Besseth breathed, "And the Lich King's followers understand that. They don't feel the cold, and those jeopardized by such weather will return to Icecrown to wait it out. They will hope you are foolish enough to let the land itself, the crown of the world, destroy you for them."

"Awwww. You had to tell him."

Besseth ducked her eyes, but knew the male dragon had sensed the shift in her attention, and probably knew why. His hand landed on her shoulder again, but instead of the iron and ire she expected it to have, it was gentle and supportive. He leaned close, his lips nearly touching her ear. "Besseth. Champion of the Lich King, Paladin of Azeroth. To tear him out of your soul would cause grave damage, or we would try. You still live in his grace, but remember, you live in our graces as well. You are big enough to handle both."

"According to what I was just told Lady Besseth is a green paladin fresh from training." The lodge master sputtered, "And Northrend has lots of storms. We don't stop operations for them..."

"Fine." The dragon released his hold. "I will inform Tirion that we, that the Ebon Blade, and now that this green paladin fresh from training all scream the same thing. Operations will be suspended, Stantos. It's just a matter of who gives the order. You were given the information in good faith." He spun, stalked out, and Besseth caught a flash of bronze and a flurry of snowflakes through the door as he was gone.

"Damn dragon. Thinks he owns the world." The lodge master shook his head, raking fingers through his thinning brown hair. "But that's the end of that. He's right; Tirion will suspend operations until this is over. We're paladins, Lord Tibault. We do not fear a little snow."

Besseth did not fear a little snow. She feared the sort of snow that blotted out the sky for days. Turned day to night. Turned north to south. She feared snow backed by winds so strong that the snow turned into burning sand which ate at skin. She would not face that without the blessing of the true king, and she had lost that.

"If the dragonflights and the Ebon Blade fear it, then we should at least respect it." Tibault replied diplomatically. "And much of our support is not paladins. We can't lose those and still maintain operational strength in the region."

"You are correct, Lord Tibault. It just seems like we run into so many obstacles here...and we get nowhere. The giants hound us. The fog hems us in. The Horde is on our doorstep. And now, the very land itself moves against us."

"We didn't expect this to be easy, Stantos. But if we tell our allies and friends that we don't want or need their warnings, then we'd stand alone. And we'd fall alone. If Besseth says it is not safe, then to me, it is not safe. I bow to her judgment."

"Forgive me for questioning your lady, Tibault." The man took a seat next to her. "But a young paladin does not have the seasoning, the experience, to make this call. The day outside is as clear as any I've seen..."

All the worst ones started like this. Besseth had stood on the brow of the world, and watched them pour down the mountainsides like an avalanche of clouds. "Besseth understands Northrend like none of us do, Stantos. She came late to the Order, but she has not come late to Northrend. If she says...if the dragons say... if the Ebon Blade says... then damn well listen to them!"

"She's a veteran of Northrend?"

That was putting it mildly, and Besseth gave him her best angelic smile. "I am Besseth. I served the Lich King, until the Crusade captured me at Light's Hope."

He stared at her out of wary, dubious eyes. "You are no member of the Ebon Blade. You are a paladin. No death knight."

"I am no longer a death knight, that is correct. But I still served the Lich King for eight years of my life. I lived here, on Northrend, for most of those. I know this place. I won't allow Tibault or Anselm to move from here until that thing blows itself out."

He blinked, then stared at Tibault. "You marry a turncoat? One of the scourge defectors?"

Tibault sighed, smiled at her. "I marry Besseth. One time Champion of the Scourge, currently my sister in arms, paladin of the Argent Crusade. You make no allies here, Stantos. She has more experience here than I could ever hope to have, and Tirion is well aware of that."

"I am, indeed."

Besseth wondered idly if Tirion's timing was that great, or if he had waited and listened waiting for the correct moment. "Danstrasz told me..." The Highlord continued, sitting in the only remaining chair at the table and nodding a quick greeting to Besseth and Tibault. "...That you are choosing to ignore warnings about some storm brewing? I have the Ebon Blade howling at me, the dragons saying the same, and now...Besseth." He smiled at her. "And I hear congratulations are in order. When is the wedding planned?"

She glanced at Tibault, who was steadily gaining the long suffering look that said all too clearly he would have preferred to broach this subject in a more private venue than he'd gotten.

"Ah... Timing is rather of the essence, Highlord." He sputtered, and she stared at him. The man stuttered and blushed like a child caught in a crime. "Sooner would be better than later. I was hoping you would do us the honor and bind us here, in Northrend."

Tirion leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes planted squarely on Besseth. "No." He finally stated, and Tibault's face fell. She eyed Tirion cautiously; uncertain as to why he would hurt Tibault so. While she did not deserve to have the honor of having the Highlord himself preside over her wedding, Tibault did.

"Highlord?" Tibault finally managed to ask, and Tirion shook his head.

"I will not marry you here, in speed, as if there is something to hide or rush. I understand that your concerns are that Besseth has conceived, which is no crime or sin. It's only one if we act like it is. Your timing is stellar..." He gave her a sour stare, but his eyes danced. "...But that can't be helped. Babes come when babes come. But I will marry you in Stormwind, before the Order, in due time. Not here. Not like this."

"Ah, but...Highlord..." Tibault stammered again, "It's rather important that the child..."

Tirion sighed, and even the laughter in his eyes did not banish his obvious exasperation. "Under the High Laws of Stormwind, it is vastly important your child be born legitimately." He noted drily, "Otherwise it is no heir. I understand that, and I will certainly not keep Besseth's babe away from you as an heir. But..." He glanced back at Besseth. "Six weeks will not kill either one of you."

"No." Tibault sighed, and Besseth stared warily at him. For Tirion to invoke the High Laws... "Stop staring at me, Bess. It's not important."

"So, she doesn't know. Makes you a damn fool, Tibault. Cornering her like this is not advisable. And receiving her agreement to wed you under false pretenses comes perilously close to dishonor."

Tibault flushed a riotous crimson, the first time that Besseth had ever seen him even come close to being this completely flustered and at a loss. "Fine. Bess. My father is nobility. I need a marriage under the High Laws if any child of mine is to be considered a legitimate heir of my family. That's why it was so important to me to be certain you really weren't married. Why it is so important that I marry you before you birth. When my brothers died, it left only me..." He sighed, staring without focused eyes before him. "Bess, love. I'm a paladin. It's what I was called to be... I was never called to be a noble's son, a pretty boy in silks and embroidery. You know me by now..."

Besseth's mouth went dry. Nobility. He was...nobility. She should have known, she should have guessed. Cold, dreading panic rose in her soul. There had only been one place where her background had truly never mattered, and that was now only half a continent away. The Lich King may have been born royalty, but he had been forged into more, and his eyes had been squarely planted on reforging his followers into more. Now, she was simply a green paladin from the worst of blood and upbringing, and once again, she was less than the men around her. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Tibault's went white and his eyes were hard when he glanced at Tirion.

"You have lost me my child." He stated simply, coldly... standing and walking from the table. Tirion watched him go, silently, before settling his eyes back on Besseth.

"Come with me." He ordered, and she stood, falling into step behind him as he moved outside, into the still perfect day. Besseth was not surprised to discover he was staying in the keep. His accommodations were not luxurious, but were better than they had secured in the inn.

"Sit." Again, Tirion ordered, and she complied. "Besseth Southcross." He breathed, moving to the window, holding the heavy curtains open with his shoulder, and staring unerringly towards the brewing storm. "Congratulations."

She was uncertain if he was being sarcastic, and remained silent, eying him warily."No." He sighed, shaking his head. "I am not being flippant. Congratulations are in order, are they not? A new babe? A wedding?"

"I cannot tell if you are being serious, Highlord." She finally muttered through numbed lips.

He snorted in amusement. "Two of my honored and great siblings have fallen for each other. They have created life from that regard, and our children are the future of this endeavor, Besseth. If we do not support the idea that we raise our children in the Order, then how can we hope to succeed? I wholeheartedly bless this, Besseth. I just will not let Tibault lead you into this blindly. He so fears losing you that he works himself straight towards that eventuality. Withholding information like this is ill advised, and I'd rather do it now and fix it, then wait until you no longer have a choice. He is correct. He was born to be a paladin, sleeping in bedrolls in tents, wearing steel, not silks and fineries. He loves you. He wants this babe. Do you love him? Do you want this babe?"

"Of course I do."

"You have risen from nothing, Besseth. That is something to be proud of. Even your service to the Scourge is, in its own way, something to be proud of. As you taught your children, you learned from them... and I will not sneeze at eight years of tutelage from the combined force of two noble scions of a Quel'dorei house. Your strength is what attracted the Lich King to you in the first place. Allowed you to raise ten of the finest combatants on this field of conflict. It makes you worthy to birth and raise more, even if their family name is Kellemen. Just between you and me, Besseth, the Light knows the noble houses of Stormwind could use a little real blood thrown into them. I fear the future of a kingdom led by them. But you are one of my sisters. A paladin. I will not see you misled, even by one as well meaning as Tibault happens to be. Marry Tibault as you planned, do it under the High Laws, in the view of one and all in the Chapel of Stormwind... six weeks from now, and I would be proud to officiate." He frowned at his own reflection in the glass before him. "You are something to be proud of, Besseth. Your child, likewise. I will not allow Tibault's fears to sully that."

"I'm not noble. Tirion, I'm not even close..."

"Bah. A noble heart makes up for any lack of noble blood, Besseth. And from what I see, most so called nobles lack both. I just wish to see you get what you deserve out of this, and married here, hush hush, by me, is not it." She could see the faintest smudge of lilac low on the horizon beyond him, beyond the window, and she frowned, moving up beside him.

"There it is."

"Aye. There it is. Thanks to the multitudes of warnings we've received, we have the vast majority of our people under shelter. I guess Mograine does have his uses after all... So. Your answer to me is...?" He placed a hand on her shoulder, but his eyes did not leave the horizon.

"I will marry Tibault still. And I will do it under the High Laws..." Which required the Church to post notification of an upcoming marriage at least a full month in advance. Tibault had been hoping to circumvent the requirement by entering a battlefield marriage, presided over by the unassailable force of the Highlord himself. "But there is still one issue..." He glanced at her, waiting. "It took us two months to arrive here by boat." She finished.

"We have open portals at Dalaran, and other points. The boat voyages help smooth the transition, and it is how we are shipping supplies. You served as security for them. I can have you back in Stormwind within the day, if need be."

Tibault rarely felt rage. He had raged at the downfall of the Silver Hand, when he was just a young man, forced to go into hiding. Raged at the death of his brothers, who had stood while he had not... They had been free from oaths, free to go to Lordaeron's defense, while his orders unequivocally moved him away.

He raged now, silently, while Anselm remained downcast in the farthest corner from him. "I'm certain it's going to be just fine." The boy finally stated, when the silence became too much.

"She will leave." Tibault predicted, and Anselm shook his head.

"She will not. Tirion is right; you should have told her earlier. But she still won't leave you over this."

If only the boy was right. Besseth was touchy about her past; the only force in it which had validated her worth was the Lich King and her children. She disliked any discussion which brought up a past deeper than that, anything which reminded her of earlier. He heard her step in the hallway... she did not possess a light step, dainty as some women were, but her tread was still lighter than any of the men he was surrounded by. She opened the door, and Anselm tried to fold himself into an even smaller presence in the corner.

"Besseth." He greeted, not bothering to attempt to banish the gloom and doom from his voice. She gazed at him, and again, he was struck by how horribly lovely she was. Every day made her moreso, as if each dawn worked to scrub away the taint of darkness she'd carried.

"Tirion and I have come to an agreement." She began, and Anselm's expression dropped slightly. An agreement. That could mean only one thing, and Tibault sat on the bed, defeated. The Order would provide for Besseth and her unborn, of course. They'd have the best that could be offered to them. "The Church will call the banns within the week, in Stormwind."

Anselm crowed in joy, and Tibault still sat, stunned. "Congratulations, Mom." Anselm grinned, coming out of his corner to give her a big embrace. He pivoted to give Tibault the same. "Dad. Drinks are on me, downstairs, when the two of you make it." He moved through the door, laughing as he went.

She stood, waiting, as Tibault caught his breath. "You'll still marry me?" He finally asked, and she raised a brow.

"In Stormwind, in six weeks. Exactly as the Highlord requests. If I'm good enough to marry, good enough to have your baby, then I'm damn well good enough to marry in front of all who care to watch."

He stood, then chuckled. Once again, Anselm had been right. "Of course you are, Bess." He breathed, "I never meant to imply otherwise. I'll send word to my father immediately." That caused some concern on her face, and he shook his head. "He'll be ecstatic." He promised, and did not doubt his words. That was, in fact, putting it mildly. A child for the line. Born legally and legitimately, after all this time... Besseth could do no wrong now. She could have still been as she was, pale haired and marked, and his father would overlook her crimes.

Tibault had seen snow. He'd lived in Dun Morogh, passed through the ways around Ironforge. Nothing had prepared him for this. The snow did not fall. It was driven sideways, a blinding, salty, burning wave of darkness. Besseth watched it, her face expressionless, while the inn shuddered and squeaked under the onslaught.

"Oh, my." Anselm muttered, watching it from the window next to Besseth's. "Glad I'm not out in that."

So was Tibault. He'd never seen the like, not even the last time he'd served here. Obviously Besseth had. Obviously Mograine and the Ebon knights had. He glanced at her, wishing she had not blocked him off as she obviously had. "Besseth...what are you thinking?"

A flick of her eyes, and a slight shrug was all the proof he had that she had heard him for a long time. When he did not let the question go, she shifted her weight. "These are a marvel to watch from the heights of the mountains." She finally admitted.

It was difficult to counter these statements. Had Besseth been abused here, her heart and will bruised, he could bolster her, comfort her. Leading her away from what was basically home was a great deal more difficult.

"You love it here." He murmured, and she gazed at him out of level, brown eyes. She would never let it go, completely, he realized in that moment. There would always be a shadow, a remnant, of what she had been cradled in her heart. There would always be some part of her held beyond, away. Always some part of her which belonged here, to the storms, the darkness, the Lich King...the breathless expanse of Northrend. It spoke to her, breathed in her. While he had felt nothing, the very air itself had warned her of the coming storm. And, in spite of everything, the Lich King still held her. And Tibault did not see fear or revulsion in her eyes in those moments when she garnered his focus.

"I do." She agreed calmly. "It's home."

Home. Such a simple answer. He sighed, staring out into the driving snow. She carried his unborn, she had promised to marry him, her past was her own. As difficult as it was for him to accept it, this place, and all within it, had made her what she was.

"So what do you do when it gets like this?"

"Teach. Learn." She shrugged. "It was times like this when the twins taught me..." She trailed off, the fine edge of a blush rising on her features, and Anselm perked up immediately from his bored contemplation of the fire before him.

"Go on." Tibault stated. "The twins?"

"My firstborn. Diarmid and Declan Noonshimmer. They fell before me, at Quel'danas, and watching them go down..." Her voice faded off. "I couldn't let them go like that. I taught them how to die. They taught me how to live. How to see beauty and glory instead of dirt and sweat. They taught me how to read, how to learn, how to be more than just what I had been. Without them, I would have been nothing, unfit."

"Besseth, you never..."

Her eyes were as stormy as the weather outside when she stared at him. "Never what, Tibault? Was unfit? The hell I wasn't. I give up what my so called husband did to me, and I do that freely. What he did to me was a crime and a sin, and I am pleased every day that he pays for it. But I know what I was, and I know what I wasn't, and I know who is responsible for helping me out of that hole. You'd love to say it was the Light, my own strength, and that the love of my children and the regard of the true king meant nothing. Say that and you're wrong, Tibault."

"Love and regard are aspects of the Light, Besseth. If your children love you, then that is the undying light within them shining upon you. If they taught you, as you say, beauty and glory, a value for yourself, then no, it doesn't mean nothing. It means a great deal, and I am indebted to them." He bowed his head, feeling the assault of the storm without, and the warm security of a safe room, with the two most important people in existence to him within it. "Besseth. I believe that you have been blessed to see sides of your children, your king, which are rare and fleeting now. I believe they still possess facets of what they were before, and that these are what they show you most often. I can certainly believe that your children love you, especially after I have watched you with Anselm. Even though they have fallen, they still care. I believe that Arthas values you, yes. That he holds you in high regard, yes. When you're happy and secure, you produce great children. It's in his best interest to keep you thus." Discounting that would be a disaster he wasn't certain he could hold on to her through. That could just be enough to drive her out from this inn, and into the depths of the storm beyond. She stood so damned close to those he wanted to keep her distant from, for the simple fact that he could not dispute their claims to her.


	13. Chapter 13

"Besseth stands on Northrend." Diarmid stated, and Declan nodded. Yes, she did. He could feel her proximity; feel her reconnect with the power which was rightfully hers. "She brings her lover and her newborn with her." Diarmid continued, and Declan remained silent. Paladins, both. Fine, fine paladins, both. Besseth never did anything with half a heart, half a soul. Tearing her away from them would be difficult nigh unto impossible. They'd need to gain them all...

"In more ways than one." Diarmid ended. "Besseth is with child, herself. Flesh and blood within her."

"Besseth Southcross and Tibault Kellemen?" For that prize, all of this was worthwhile. If this played out, that would mean they'd have Tibault Kellemen. Besseth returned. One of the children of the Tiegans, and an unborn filled with vast promise. If they failed, then they lost Besseth. All games worth winning were worth playing.

"Yes. She's thinking about us..."

Declan was already aware of that. With her attention turned elsewhere, but her mind on him, so close again, he could skim her thoughts. "Those were great times." He finally stated, and his twin nodded in agreement. Turning Besseth into a person worthy to be the person who raised them had been a fine endeavor. She had been a fast learner, and as much as she had left her marks upon them, they had left their marks upon her.

"We'll have them again, my brother." Diarmid said, clapping him on his shoulder. "After all, this child will need the loving attention of its...uncles. Our family will grow. Strengthen. Prosper." And serve. "Unfortunately, we will be held away from her wedding. Shame, that." He smiled benignly. "We'll just have to have a reaffirmation in the Cathedral when they return."

In spite of Tibault's reassurances, Besseth was not looking forward to meeting his family. Not really looking forward to as public a wedding as Tirion seemed to believe was required. She happened to agree with Tibault that a battlefield wedding, presided over by the Highlord was more than legitimate enough for her, and her child.

But no, it was apparently not legitimate enough for that Highlord, and his orders had brought her back here, to Stormwind. Here, to this graceful estate drowsing under Elwynn's golden sun and pure blue skies. She missed Northrend with a sudden, sharp ache.

"Father." Tibault began, and his unease caused her stomach to do a slow roll. "I know that Tirion has already informed you..."

"That you intend to marry. And that she is with child. A comrade of yours, in the Order, he tells me. He speaks highly of her..." The man turned from the book he had been perusing, and Besseth clapped eyes on Tibault as he would be in twenty five years. No doubts there. "And this would be her?"

"Yes, father. This is Besseth Southcross."

The man stared, not bothering to hide how desperately he measured her. "Southcross. Not a name I'm familiar with." He settled on, and she watched him. So far, he was unconvinced, but hopeful.

"My people were from eastern Lordaeron. Near Light's Hope."

"So you're not from Stormwind at all."

"No." After spending any time at all in Northrend, this room felt surreal. The pouring of amber light from the windows. The heavy breeze, laden with heat and humidity. Her skin, damp with sweat. "I am not from Stormwind at all."

"And your family?" Tibault bristled at the question, and his father regarded him for a long moment before returning his eyes to her.

"Common farmers."

"So you have no political ties whatsoever."

Besseth arched a brow at the idea. She had more political ties than she knew what to do with, but she was certain he was not considering the Court of the Lich King as a tie he wanted. "I have no relevant political ties beyond the Order." She settled on it as a safe, and all too truthful, answer.

He frowned, glancing between the pair of them. "You claim common blood, but you speak like nobility. You stand like nobility. Tirion hinted quite pointedly that have a graceful upbringing in spite of the fact that you would claim to be common, but he would not tell me how..."

Ah. He simply was not going to leave that one alone. She sensed it. Tirion's guarded assurances had merely piqued his curiosity. "I was gracefully raised in the Court of the True King."

Tibault froze, stunned into deep silence, his complexion paling. She felt suddenly, desperately sorry for him, but she would not, could not, live with a lie. "I am Besseth, one time Champion of Arthas. I was taught courtly manners by the lords Declan and Diarmid Noonshimmer. I am one of the death knights who stood down at Light's Hope."

It was heartening to see that she had managed to unsettle his father, put him off of the offensive. He was not her father, after all. "But you live."

"I live. I breathe. And after an extensive healing and cleansing, am able to conceive. I serve the Argent Crusade now. And I marry Tibault, and return to Northrend." It was inexorable, if only the man could see it. She didn't think he would, he felt like one who thought he could change things, rather than just letting them go.

"You intend to return to Northrend after the wedding?" He sounded shocked, and that response made sense. The man was desperate for an heir, with Tibault his only surviving child. Tibault was older than Besseth, and up until now, had shown precious little interest in continuing his bloodline. Now there was a child, and Besseth had just threatened to take it back to Northrend.

"I am still ordered to Northrend." She noted slowly. Tirion was, of course, aware of her condition. His final words, before she stepped through the portal to come back to Stormwind, had been that she was to return immediately after the wedding. Her orders had changed, but not as deeply as this man would like. They still returned her to Northrend, but they put her at Tirion's back, within the leadership of the Argent Crusade, not in the field. She was still small. Still graceful on her feet, no outward sign that she had conceived. And, in spite of it all, she felt safe in Northrend. Safer than here. It was where she wanted to be, and the fact that Tibault and Anselm were there sealed it.

"Insanity. All insanity." The man mourned, shaking his head. "Do you really believe you can bear a healthy child and serve in Northrend at the same time?"

"I do." Northrend was home. It called. The thought of being returned here, while the Crusade was in the field, made her soul scream. This was not where she was meant to be.

Defeat crossed the man's features. He'd seen the light of hope, and then had it snatched away from him. Besseth had no words of reassurance for him, only gut feelings, and those so often went contrary to logic. She returned to Northrend, with Tibault's child beneath her heart. "Tibault?" The man asked, obviously hoping his son would start making sense at some point in his life.

"Father. She is a paladin, no longer my subordinate. I cannot order her from Northrend."

Interesting choice of words. Besseth considered them silently, could not...definitely. Would not...that was different. If given the authority and half a chance, Tibault would order her from Northrend. Order her here, if not his father's house, then to the Lodge. How precious. At least Tirion's orders were not the same.

"I have no wish to return to Stormwind while the Order battles in Northrend." At least not now, not when the child was just an understanding, too small to show. "My orders put me behind Tirion, in the rear."

The man looked unimpressed, dropping the book he was carrying on the table before him. "Rear." He snorted, shaking his head. "Do you really believe there is such a thing on the Lich King's lands? Behind Tirion? Behind the main target that the Lich King will go after? I may not be a military man, Besseth, but..." He waved a hand at the book adorned walls which surrounded him, "...I have read the words of plenty of them. Arthas will target Tirion, strategically, tactically, for the morale of the Argent Crusade... And your words put you behind him. You wonder why I don't seem amused?"

She grinned back at him. And yes, the man had the mind which had spawned Tibault. Not a combatant himself, admittedly, but he knew in a scholarly way. "I understand that. I also understand that Northrend is home to me, and it's where I feel safest." As paradoxical as that was, it was the truth.

"Safest." He stared at her out of Tibault's blue green eyes, resigned, heartsick, and her stomach clenched at the gaze. "One time servant of the Lich King, and you still feel safest in his lands? Safe enough that you wish to stay there, now?"

"I do." She knew his argument was an intelligent, insightful one. She had no answer for logic, she was only working on instinct. "I don't want to be here." She had never wanted to be here. She didn't particularly care for Stormwind. She hated the weather, and the politics, and that seemed to be all it had...now that Anselm and Tibault were no longer here. Weather. She handled Northrend's bitterness easier than she handled Stormwind's humid heat. She didn't feel the pulse of the land here, didn't breathe with it. And politics? Stormwind valued people based on an accident of birth, Northrend on their abilities and strengths. She understood the true king's court, understood how to measure and value those within it. He surrounded himself with strength, and he didn't give a damn where it came from. That was why she herself had been so valuable... Small, fragile, easily overlooked, but he had never overlooked her ability to see greatness in others. "I don't like Stormwind." Jewel of humanity? She guessed so, it had stood while Lordaeron had fallen and now laid to waste.

"She's a lovely choice, Tibault." The man did not even play at hiding the pain in his voice, nor did he attempt to make the words seem true.

"Father... She is the only choice for me." Tibault returned slowly. "You make it sound as if I have deliberately been avoiding this. You had a woman you loved in my mother. You cared for her deeply. That was all I wanted as well. I felt cursed until I rested eyes upon Besseth, cursed to never know better. I want the same as what you had, and it's taken this long to find it. It may be too late to have a half dozen children, but it's not too late to have one or two."

"Born in Northrend?"

"If that's where Besseth chooses, if that's where the Highlord deems, then yes. I would not stand between her and where she feels safest." He bowed his head, contemplated the floor. "Father. I'm asking you to bless this. Be there with me. If not, I will still do this, but I do it without you."

"You find it difficult to believe this, my boy, but all I've ever wanted was to see you happy. And out of all of my sons, you were the one most determined to be unhappy." He glanced at Besseth, "I guess I should have expected you to bring home something unforeseen. She is lovely, I will give you that. And if Tirion finds her worthy, then who am I to doubt? Welcome to my home, Besseth. Welcome to my family."

"It's beautiful." Ellorie breathed, and Declan nodded, watching the snow batter ineffectually against the windows that held it out. Ellorie wasn't referring to the weather, glorious as it was. She had never felt the rush of power when the very land itself threw into a fit of rage, as he, his twin, and his mother did.

"Of course it is. Is she not deserving?" No, she referred to the gown arranged on the mannequin behind him. It was only right, only fitting, that Besseth's family provide the gown she would wed in. "Stormwind's chapel requires a certain level of opulence, and I'll see us give our mother what she warrants. The Order will not, and I will not see my mother reduced to a charity case for the Kellemen lord." He turned, strode over to the mannequin, and gave the gown one last glance. It was the best, most fitting, he and Diarmid could bring. The true king's perversity called for darker, blacker, ornamented with skulls and death, but then, that perversity also called to have Besseth wed Tibault in the Chapel of Darkness, presided over by him. While Declan agreed that was the best, he also knew they weren't going to get it...yet. Now, he had to settle for this. He slipped it from the mannequin, bundled it carefully.

"John." He called. While Besseth's common law husband technically belonged to Khraben, he'd come when he was called by any of the children. He served her, through them.

"ggghhr?"

"Take this..." He held out the bundle to the geist appearing from the darkness in the far corner. "To Besseth. If it does not make its way to her in a timely, clean and intact manner, you will regret it. "

"grh." It snatched the bundle from Declan's grasp, tucked it away, and was gone.

"Hate that one." Ellorie murmured, turning away from it, and towards the dubious comfort of the blue flames banked in the fireplace. "We should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. It's too... intact."

"Of course it is." Declan didn't need the comfort of a fireplace when Icecrown roared. "If it were mindless, then it would not comprehend why it pays still. And it will pay forever." Ellorie had come much later to the family. She had never known Besseth when the marks of that one's terror were still fresh on her, when she had wallowed in filth and gore to make herself less appealing. Death and oblivion was too quick an answer. Let it serve and grovel for the rest of eternity, it was as much a member of the family as any of them were. Without it, and its misdeeds, he'd lie dead on his homeland's dirt, or worse, be mindless and rambling. His twin, likewise. That terrible day would have been the end of both of them. Besseth would not have accepted the True King's gifts that fateful day, found by him trying to escape along the road to Light's Hope. They would have all just died, and been lost, forgotten about. And that was one of the few things that truly terrified Declan. "Without it, Ellorie, there would be no us. I pay my debts, sister. All of them."

Besseth's wedding day dawned, clear, with just a touch of autumn in the air. She woke, already feeling the excitement rising in the household. She could hear a great many men's voices, Tibault's, Anselm's, Tirion's. Between the group of them, they knew precious few females, the majority of those who turned up to celebrate and bless this event were male. I wish you were here, Mama."" She sighed, shaking her head and crawling out of bed. Some things were just not meant to be, and some things were...

The gown hanging from the wardrobe door was not the same as had been there when she'd gone to bed last night, and she chuckled. What was good enough for her, with a deadline fast approaching, had obviously not been good enough for the twins. The gown before was nice, this was more, fine, lustrous linen, heavy with embroidery... its cut breathed of quel'dorei and Lordaeron styles right before the fall, and would gracefully conceal the now undeniable swell to her belly. She was showing, and showing fast. Any hopes that she would be one of those women who remained slim and athletic well into their terms were lost hopes indeed. Tirion had blinked in ill disguised amazement when he'd clapped eyes on her last night, the first he'd seen since she'd come out of Northrend. Six weeks, and the change was obvious. Anselm had grinned like the boy he had only recently ceased to be at the same sight. Four months gone, and she was already sick to death of flowery euphemisms like ripening and blooming. Swelling and exploding, maybe. "Thank you, Declan, Diarmid." She stated to the empty room.

"You are welcome, mother."

She nodded, unsurprised. Keeping them away from places they wanted to be was a struggle... the complete and total lack of magical warding she sensed in Tibault's ancestral home was an open door invitation to them to come and go as they pleased. Declan stood, like statuary, on one side of the window, his brother a mirror image on the other. They had both shed the dark, somber gear which shouted servant of the Scourge, their clothing was appropriate for male quel'dorei at a formal event, and they were bleeding the power from their eyes. They'd pass, if no one looked too hard.

"You..." Declan's eyes dropped to her belly. "Grow well."

She snorted, again, that was putting it mildly. "I am going to be huge." She spat, and Diarmid chuckled.

"We come to see you wed, mother." Diarmid smiled. "Since you will not do so in our Cathedral, we have made this journey. And, of course you're going to be huge. Tibault Kellemen is no small man. Congratulations."

That would settle better if she felt even the slightest hint of irony or sarcasm in his voice. There was none, his eyes were level and accepting, as were his twin's. He stepped forward, out of the shadow, and rested his fingertips on her belly. "Live, while you still have the chance." He breathed, pressing a chill kiss on her forehead. "This is fleeting."

Declan, always the gentler of the two, stared daggers at Diarmid. Besseth was relieved, that statement was the most comprehensible one that any of the Court had given her since she'd been left at Light's Hope. They hadn't changed. She still understood them. They were still her spawn.

"Diar..." Declan hissed, and his twin gazed mildly back at him. "That was uncalled for."

"It is fleeting, Dec. I will not lie, or coat it with honey. She is ours, and we will come for her, sooner than later."

"Not today."

Diarmid nodded, resting his hand on the back of Besseth's neck. "Not today. Nor tomorrow. Nor before the babe comes. And yes, brother, you are correct. Such statements are not fitting for today. And..." He stared into her face. "She may yet confound us again. Such seems to be her gift."

Besseth felt her lips curve. In spite of it all, in spite of his words, they were still her sons. Just as she had made them to be.

"You fuss." Anselm muttered, and Tibault growled under his breath. To be that young, and that certain of how things were, again. Of course he fussed. What else was he supposed to do?

"He's young, Tibault. He'll learn." Tirion noted, and Anselm frowned, absently playing with the treasure he'd been entrusted with, a golden band, inset with lapis and amber, on his smallest finger.

"Lose that, and I'll eat you." Tibault warned, and the young paladin only gave him a long suffering look.

"I will not lose Besseth's wedding band." He grumbled, "I'm more afraid of what she would do to me if I did, than what you would."

"Such wisdom from one so young." Tirion chuckled, his silver hair bathed with the light of noon flowing from the Cathedral's great windows. "The Order turns out for this day, Tibault."

It did indeed. It was humbling to see so many fill the Cathedral for this. When he'd suggested that the Order's Chapel was large enough, Tirion had only laughed in cheerful derision at the idea. "More than that will show up, Tibault." He'd warned, and he was proven correct.

"In fact," Tirion continued, a grin playing under his moustache, "Unless my old eyes deceive...that would be the King."

It was. Varian Wrynn moved through the Cathedral, drawing as little attention to himself as it was possible for him to, taking a seat in one of the pews. Tibault swallowed down a sudden knot of panic. Besseth was going to explode. This was more than even he had counted for, and he'd been fearing a great deal. Why did this have to be so difficult? All he wanted to do was marry the woman he loved. The woman who carried his child. Men did it all the time.

"Besseth has stood in the Court of the Lich King." Tirion stated. "She fears little, Tibault. Stop fretting. The boy is right, you fuss..." His voice trailed off, his eyes locked on the woman who had appeared in the doorway. Anselm's breath hissed in tandem, and Tibault was speechless. Besseth. Her tea blonde hair was intricately braided with flowers and ribbons. She wore a lovely gown...which harkened back to a style which had died with Northern Lordaeron, a hint of the majesty of the quel'dorei fashions also there. It flowed over her belly, not an attempt to hide or flaunt, just graceful and lovely.

"You are one lucky man, Tibault Kellemen. I hope you realize that."

"I do." It was the first time that afternoon that Tibault would use those words. It was not the last.


	14. Chapter 14

Besseth Kellemen lounged in a camp chair, ignoring the foreboding rise of the wind outside. She lounged because there was simply no other way to sit, her hands clasped over the high mound of her belly. Huge. No. That word was not big enough a description. Immense, possibly. She had grown so large it was difficult to breathe, and Tirion's amusement had begun fading weeks earlier. His questions were pointed, cautious... could she have miscalculated? Counted wrong? His hope that she was farther along than stated had died as she approached the time she guessed she was due at.

"Undermining the gates would be... nigh unto impossible. They are not mortar and stone..." It was the same statement she'd made multiple times already, and she grew bored with it. "The ground is frozen around their foundations." She closed her eyes. There had to be a foot firmly lodged beneath her ribcage, and the spawn was strong. She'd kill to draw a full breath again. It was difficult to remember that she had once prayed for this, and mourned its loss.

"Anything can blow."

"The answer to everything is not always blow it up." She was well on the verge of losing her patience. The moment she lost that, then she lost her temper. It was a bad chain, and she simply could not comprehend the small ones' love of explosives. She didn't want to imagine the sheer force it would take to blow any one of the great gates guarding the entrance to the Citadel. If they managed, then she wanted to be as far away as possible... Stormwind was lovely this time of year.

"I concur." The draenei vindicator who sat opposite her had remained silent for most of the planning meeting, his eyes locked on her. She didn't have to ask why, that was the response of most people who newly met her.

A gathering pain grasped her, and she bit her lip. Not this, again. They came. They went. Her first excited thought, weeks ago, was that the babe finally made its way into the world. But no, they always subsided, leaving her frustrated. She'd stopped telling Tibault about them, because each one of them left him the same. He grew as concerned as Tirion, his eyes losing their mirth and joy. "And..." He sighed, standing. "That concludes this."

"Why?" The gnome, startled from his blow up the world litany, squeaked, glaring.

"Because I believe Lady Besseth is fast becoming unfit to continue this."

And he just might be correct. This one did not seem to want to let go like the others had, in fact, it seemed to want to settle in and grind. "I'm fine." She sighed, struggling to her feet as well. The draenei reached out to steady her, and managed to easily catch her when she swayed, a rush of fluid darkening her gown.

Besseth labored, finally. The words both relieved and terrified Tibault. This had not gone nearly as easily as he'd hoped. Besseth was not young. She'd been put through much, and had not handled her pregnancy well. He'd feel better if he was the only one who worried, but he was not. Tirion. Anselm.

So much blood. So many intent healers, the best on the ground here at Tirion's headquarters camp. Tibault felt a thin edge of panic rise, and he fought it down. Tirion's frown had only deepened, the lines between his brows chiseled out in harsh relief. He feared. The priests feared. Tibault would give anything to rest eyes on someone who didn't wear that look. This had been a terrible idea. He should have been smarter, less selfish. He was going to lose her, in a puddle of her own blood. He was going to lose the babe, unborn.

"Push, Besseth. You're close." Tirion growled, and Tibault rested his fingertips on his wife's temples. She was exhausted. She couldn't take much more of this, and all he could do was rest his forehead against hers and pray.

"There!" Tirion hissed, pulling the babe free. "It's a girl, Tibault... a little girl." The Highlord sounded oddly puzzled, and Tibault looked up. It was indeed that, a little girl. She was much smaller than any expectation...such a pregnancy, such a labor, and it was one of the smallest full term babes he'd ever clapped eyes on. "Oh, damnation." Tirion breathed. "Besseth..."

"I know!" She snarled at him, "Not done."

Tibault was more exhausted than he had ever been in his life, but Besseth slept. Those who tended her were still guarded and cautious, but their desperation and chilled panic was lifting. He had the little girl tucked in his lap, she did not sleep but seemed content enough. Her brother rested in Tirion's arms, also awake, also silent. "Twins." He marveled, finally calming enough to let hope in.

"Aye." The Highlord chuckled. "Makes more sense now. Besseth is strong, Tibault. She fights. She'll be fine. You need to sleep yourself..."

"No. Not with Besseth down." There were too many things out there that might be tempted to move on her in such a state.

"We will watch. It will give Anselm something to do."

Anselm had finally been allowed in the room. He was aware enough to know that things had not gone as well as hoped, Besseth had looked terrible the last few times he'd seen her, Tibault not much better. "What gives, Highlord?" He whispered. The room smelled of blood, sweat and fear... entirely too much like a battleground for his tastes. He didn't remember this smell, but the last birthing room he'd been in had been years ago. He wouldn't have known the correlation then. He remembered it being happier, louder, than this subdued, shadowed room, however. The babe had been screaming lustily...but there was near silence here. Surely Besseth had not lost it? She'd lost so many that it seemed bitterly cruel to contemplate the thought of her losing one here and now, but such things happened.

"Besseth and Tibault are exhausted, sleeping." The Highlord murmured. "This is still Northrend. Besseth has...friends...here that could pose problems with her now that she is this vulnerable. Watch over your mentors, Anselm. Keep them safe."

Anselm clenched his jaw and moved closer to the bed. Tibault was asleep in the chair next to it, his face still ashen. Besseth slept in a pool of lamplight, she was pale as the first day he'd seen her. He was almost afraid to look into the cradle next to her, but he gathered up his nerve...more than half of him expecting to find it empty. It was not; in fact it was over full, two fuzzy haired little scraps of humanity tucked into it.

"She had twins."

"Aye. She had twins. Little girl, born first. Little boy, after. This is why we're paladins, boy. To watch over this." The Highlord raised eyes to stare at the wall. "To keep this safe. No glory. No parades."

Twins. Declan blinked, staring at the scry. Besseth had borne...twins. Not identical, as he and Diarmid were, but nonetheless, twins. "All of the mother's firstborns are twins." Diarmid stated slowly. "Her firstborns of death. And her firstborns of life."

A little girl. A little boy. Born here, on the crown of the world. Besseth's flesh and blood. "Diarmid, I have a really bad feeling about this." He murmured, and his twin glanced sideways at him. Besseth would fight now. Fight harder than before, and probably not in a way they wanted to see. She was perfectly willing to not go against them now. Serve the True King now? He doubted. There was now too much going against that idea.

"Besseth belongs with us." Diarmid said, deliberately, slowly. "She is as much ours as we are hers. She doesn't get away from this, Declan. You know that. She has the full gaze of the True King upon her, and he will not let her go. I will not let her go. She does not get to walk away... and leave us behind. The best is that we see the plan through. Besseth. Tibault. Their children. And Anselm. No one gives up anything that way."

Declan sighed. It all sounded wonderful. If only it would play out that way.

It was such a perfect little thing, from the top of its fuzzy head to the tips of its tiny little toes. And Besseth had created it. She was whole enough, intact enough, blessed enough, to have birthed a child for Tibault. "She's beautiful." Tibault chuckled. "She have a name?"

Besseth wrinkled her nose. He had not let go of the boy, even as he watched the little girl with greedy eyes. "Does he have one?"

He glanced down, at the baby he carried. "I was thinking..." He paused awkwardly, and she waited. "Tirion."

It was a fine enough name, indeed...and Besseth had none better. "Tabitha." She finally stated, and he considered it for a long moment.

"Tabitha Kellemen. Yes. It will do nicely."

Even expecting it didn't make it easier to swallow. Declan had known, that the moment Besseth had produced her children, that the hands off policy was over. He just didn't expect the suddenness of the decree. Besseth was to die, on the lands of Northrend. She was to die well, in their grasp. She was to be theirs, again.

He stood, slowly, buckling his harness on. It was time.

They came from the storms. They came from nowhere, and Besseth had no warning of their approach. The strike was perfectly planned, she was as far away from Tirion, Tibault, Anselm, the babies, and the portal out as she could be when the snow beneath her erupted from the rise of the undead beneath. She was armored, as Tirion demanded of those on the ground at Icecrown, armed. She wasn't going down without a fight, and those coming after her seemed to expect that. In fact, they seemed to want it, no chance for quarter or discussion. They were here to kill her.

She felt panic, the usual terror that came from facing her own death. After all, hadn't all of this come from the fact that she didn't want to die? If she had, none of this would have happened. And after panic, came calm. It was too late to flee. Her only choice was to fight, and to give Anselm time to get the babies to safety. He was the one with them. He was the one just steps from the portal. Hopefully he understood the weight of his duty, his responsibility to them... to her. She wasn't getting out of this one, but she was going to take as many with her as she could. They thought they were worthy to take her down?

"Come, little ones." Anselm felt sick, sicker than he'd ever been in his life. Everything in his soul screamed to go to Besseth's defense. She was the target. She was hard pressed, and losing ground. Tibault and Tirion were cut off from her, deliberately kept at bay. He was the closest to her, and he was about to abandon her to her fate. He lifted the babies to his chest and took the five running strides to the portal, and Stormwind beyond.

They were the greatest moments of Besseth's life. The moments when she was well and truly was she was meant to be. The Light flowed through her, and those who sought to touch her were unworthy. She created carnage around her, felt power and a numbing resignation build at every step. She knew these. They weren't mindless, sent to overwhelm her. They were death knights, true combatants, a mark of her favor. They were those who thought they were her betters, those who mocked her behind her back when the darkness did not latch and flow from her. Those who called her small. Incompetent. Less, because she would not embrace death. Well, she still didn't. They'd have to cram it down her throat first, and they would know they'd crossed her to do it.

It was sickening to watch. Declan stood on the overview beside a silent Kel'thuzad, unwilling to become part of the erupting mayhem. "What?" He finally demanded of the great lich, and he felt the focus of its attention

"I watch a great paladin fall." It breathed. "Always a spectacle. Sad, because she makes a better paladin than she did a death knight. Hopeful, that she will now make a death knight of that..." It pointed unerringly in her direction. "Caliber. I look forward to aiding your mother's passage into death. It is why I was called here. Only the best."

"Maybe she will not fall."

It puzzled for a moment, contemplating. "Declan. She will fall. She already has, she just hasn't realized it yet. Her wounds are already fatal; her heart will not let her stop yet. It would be kindest to take her from where she is...for she is about to die in the midst of those who love her. The less damage to her from now, the better." It began the cast, and Declan steeled himself. One moment, he was on a precipice above Tirion's base camp, and the next, on a perch above the courtyard before the Citadel. Below him, Besseth, surrounded.

"Enough!" He yelled, moving towards her. Kel'thuzad was right. The less done to her now, the better, if she was truly dying.

The assault had ceased. Besseth was on her knees, bleeding into the snow of the courtyard. Not fair. How could this happen, now? How could she be given what she had been given, and have it snatched away? Declan's bellow was far away, all that was not far away was the rasp of her own breathing, and the touch of the wind on her cheeks. She was dying. It was over. She sensed Declan's proximity. Diarmid...as well, coming on quickly. Raien. Ellorie. They were all here, to watch her fall. Not a one was going to intercede.

"Mother." Declan grasped her shoulders gently. "It's over."

She rested her forehead against the freezing stones of the yard, vainly trying to wish it away, but the blood was pooling around her knees. He was right. It was indeed, over.

"I'm so sorry, Tibault. Anselm." She breathed into the wind. "I didn't mean this."

The twins grasped her, picked her up, and moved through the silent mob. She knew exactly where they going, and if she had any strength at all left, would have fought them. The Cathedral was breathlessly silent, but she could feel his presence within it.

"She has fallen." He stated slowly. "And, as promised, she will rise on the day of her fall. I will, Kel'thuzad will, raise her here. As befits. Get her out of that abomination she wears..."

Her armor, which had started the day proud, gleaming, golden, hit the floor with metallic rings.

Tibault.

The air was chilled on her skin. She could feel the touch of the lich, ice in her soul.

Anselm.

She was placed upon the altar, gently, reverently.

Tirion.

Power. Cold, sharp power erupted around her, she could still feel Declan's fingers on her shoulder.

My babies. My order. This is not right.

"Besseth Southcross. Champion of the one True King." His touch, upon her brow, gentle. "Finally, you have come to me, ready to take the power offered."

The world dropped out from beneath her, and there was silence, unbroken.

It remained so for a heartbeat, and an eternity.

"Choose." The other presence was strong, calm, and she sensed it held off a torrent of chaos.

Choose? What choice was there? She was dead. She had the Lich King on one side. Kel'thuzad on the other. Her children stood by...

"Choose. Which are you, Besseth? Are you Besseth Southcross, Champion of Arthas? Are you Besseth Kellemen, Paladin of the Argent Crusade? Now is the point where you must choose. You can be both no longer."

Did it matter? She was dying...

""You have died. That is over. Now Arthas seeks to raise you as promised, one of his worthy. Choose who you are."

Choose. Choose between dying or undeath. Between being the woman treasured by Tibault, the Order... and the woman treasured by those she had created as certainly as she'd made her little ones. She'd have that power that she'd always wanted... She'd be the mother to them that they'd always wanted and deserved.

Besseth's breathing had become labored, agonal, and Declan stared impotently forward. She was dying, what she had fought so hard for snatched from her. His twin sensed his distress, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Everything worth having is worth getting dirty for." He muttered, a quote from the woman dying beneath Declan's hand. She took one last breath, and there were no more.

"Good. Now we raise her..."

"As you will, master." Kel'thuzad agreed, and the pair began the work. It should be exactly as it was, the master giving them exactly what he'd promised. So much power coalescing, to be poured into Besseth. She would be grand. Glorious. A death knight to put dread into the hearts of her enemies. A true champion of the Scourge...

And the power dissipated. The master stilled, tilted his head, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Kel'thuzad?" He asked.

"She did not rise."

"I can see that. She's still dead."

Motionless, her blood freezing to the altar. The power to raise her, vanished. "She...did not rise." The lich repeated.

This time, the master did not dignify the statement with a comment. Obviously she did not. She was chilling under Declan's fingertips. She felt empty. Gone. He stared at Diarmid, who maintained a frighteningly expressionless stare. He had to feel it as well. Besseth was gone. She had not been raised. She had just died.

"What just happened?"

"She refused to rise. Her soul...rejected it. She has died, my king."

"And if you force it? We have many who did not bend... Besseth is mine. She followed my wishes for years. She will come around again..."

"Forcing it will bring her back, as a mindless one. There will be nothing left of her. Only a corpse..."

"No." Declan was barely aware that he had spoken out of turn. The only solace he had was that he was not the only. The rejection had come from eight others, those who watched their mother in stunned silence. "If she has died, then she died here, with us. And here is where she stays. Here on our ground. In our Cathedral."

Tibault was beyond sickened. Besseth was gone. He knew that, well into the depth of his soul. And all he could do was sit, and stare into nothingness. He was a widower, with two babies. His father had been right. He'd been wrong.

"Tibault?" Anselm. He should have something to say to the boy, but his mind had ceased to work. It danced around things that were important, and focused on the unimportant. Besseth was gone. That was important. The babies. They were important. "I...I got the little ones to Stormwind. I am...sorry. I should have..."

"There was no way to make it to Besseth, Anselm." It sounded exactly like Tibault wanted it to. It was good to see that Tirion still had his wits about him, and could answer in the way that Tibault was no longer able to. "You did all you could by removing the twins from harm."

I am...sorry. I should have..."

"There was no way to make it to

Besseth, Anselm." It sounded exactly like Tibault wanted it to. It was good to see that Tirion still had his wits about him, and could answer in the way that Tibault was no longer able to. "You did all you could by removing the twins from harm. It's what Besseth would have asked from you."

Tibault snorted, finally willing himself to stand and move to the doorway. The camp was only now beginning to calm down in the wake of the assault, but he could see that the casualties had been high. They had pulled him back from the point that Besseth had stood at, across the yard from where he had been surrounded at. "Tibault." Tirion began, "You need to get those wounds tended."

"I want to go to her." He already feared the worst, but none of them had bothered to actually say it yet. He couldn't go to her, because Besseth wasn't there. There was no way they would have left her here. They had come for her, and not to leave her dead in the snow.

Anselm had already been gone when the blue flash had appeared, signifying the end of the assault. After that, the Scourge had just faded back into the snow... Tibault already knew what had occurred; he just needed Tirion to confirm it.

"Besseth is not there." The Highlord sighed. "But you knew that already. There's a lot of blood, hers, but she is gone. The lich's spell to remove her was stronger than our wards to keep her..."

"Lich." Of course there would be a lich. Besseth was fated to be raised as a true death knight, as promised. Her children could probably manage it, but the best for the job would be the death masters themselves, the liches.

"Kel'thuzad." Tirion stated, and Tibault swallowed down nausea. Not just any lich, but the Lich.

"So the next time I see my wife, she will stand at the Lich King's back?" No one could stand against that. Besseth was gone.

"That possibility exists." Tirion finally admitted. "Great souls have fallen before that before hers, and she already owed much to them. But, Tibault... Anselm, she fought them. She didn't go with them willingly. At the end, she made a decision, and her decision was to stand with us."

"And it did her a lot of good."

"It does me a lot of good." Tirion said, and Tibault raised eyes to watch the Highlord. "It makes me feel like I wasn't played. That you weren't played. That the Order wasn't. That Besseth truly was one of my sisters, a hand in the Order, your wife. I will mourn her. I will wreck vengeance for her loss with a clear heart. I'm not trying to gloss this over. Your wife is gone. But I want you to rest securely in the fact that she really was that."

That might be comforting for Tirion, but it gave Tibault little ease. He stood, feeling their stares on him, but they didn't stand in his way when he strode back out into the yard, making his way to where Besseth had stood. So many corpses littered the area, both of the mindless, but more telling, of those who weren't. "Death knights." He muttered, and the priest surveying the wreckage across from him nodded soberly. She had torn her way through seven of them, leaving them dead in the snow around her.

"There were at least a dozen of them. Good death knights." The man stated slowly, and Tibault could not keep his gaze from sliding from the corpses to the central area of her stand. The ground was slick with freezing blood, bright red... the blood of the living. Besseth's.

"They have my wife." He said, and the priest kept his eyes downcast, refusing to look at him. "Tirion." He knew the Highlord stood behind him, felt Tirion wait silently. "I won't let that lie."

"We have no intention of letting this lie, Tibault, Anselm. We will get justice for every single one of our brothers, our sisters, who fall. That I promise you."

"I don't understand." Ellorie said, and Declan shook his head. He didn't, either. This was not how this was supposed to have gone. Besseth was supposed to stand again, imbued with power, blessed with glory, exactly as she was in his dreams. She was not supposed to remain broken, dead, on the altar here in the Cathedral.

"Kel'thuzad said she refused... Rejected the power. She let herself die..."

No, if Declan understood it correctly, his twin was incorrect. She had not allowed herself to die, she had forced herself to die. She had turned her back on them, chosen to give up that which she had fought for the most, rather than take the master's gifts. She had been able to deny the great power and will focused on her, and had slipped away into oblivion while they stood and watched.

"The spirits led the mama away, yah." Khraben spoke for the first time, his voice low, ignoring the vicious glance that Diarmid sent in his direction. "Said she is...not ours."

"Agreed." The orc muttered, his eyes glowing blue in the shadows of the Cathedral.

"Nonsense." Diarmid hissed. "Primitive foolishness. She lies dead because she has refused us! Refused what we offer! Turned her back on us! We have been abandoned."

"It took more than her refusal to accomplish this." The orc smoothed her blonde hair back from her brow, his touch gentle. "But. She is gone. We have succeeded only in tearing her apart." He frowned. "The blame lies not with her. She always made certain we knew she did not wish to fall. The fault lies with us, for not listening. All you see is that she rejected a...gift...one we knew she didn't view as a gift. I am not surprised that the spirits..." He stared at Diarmid angrily, "...chose to lead her away from us. We proved ourselves unfit to have her."

"Unfit?" Diarmid hissed, and Declan took a half step forward to put himself a better place if this got ugly. The children bickered often, they were all high strung and impetuous, possessed of fire and rage. The settling influence in their life rested before them now, cold and still.

"Unfit." Declan agreed slowly. The orc was correct. They had been so blinded by their idea of what Besseth deserved that they had never paused to listen to what she wanted. And did Besseth truly deserve it, or had they been ashamed of her? She had bloomed, not under their care, but under the care of the Order. And, in the end, she'd remained true to that Order. True to her spouse, and her little ones.

"It doesna matter now." Bredit growled, "Said and done. We bury our mother, for she willna rise."

"And then we go reclaim what is ours..." Diarmid said, and Bredit stared at him. "The children. The twins. Besseth's flesh and blood..."

"And what do you propose we do with them?" Raien, always the pragmatist, demanded. "They're babes in arms, Diarmid. They need warmth, care, a woman to nurse them. They are too tiny to survive here, and I won't let you kill them trying."

"Anyway, the boy took a beeline with them, right back to Stormwind. The Order will be watching them, there. We could get John in, but the chances he could bring them out is small. And I would not trust him to transport them safely. He'd be spiteful enough to drop them, or worse." Ellorie noted, another voice of reason.

"Gggrhghl." The geist hissed from his perch above the altar. "Damn Beshesh. Damn babies. Damn paladin."

Ellorie only met Declan's eyes, vindicated. He agreed, he would not trust the geist, even with explicit instructions, to carry two fragile newborns back to Icecrown. Another geist, possibly, but John was the one most likely to make the trip and not be noted. Khraben growled, using magic to snatch the geist from his perch and dropping him to the stones below. It was a mockery of a punishment, there was no way a mere fall would injure the geist, but it got his point across. The geist returned to the perch, bitterly silent now.

"So what do you suggest? Leaving the babes with the Order?"

"It would be what she wanted..." It was a little disturbing to look into his own eyes, his own face, contorted with rage. "Diarmid. We cannot care for infants long enough for them to become interesting. Raien is right. They need a woman. They need a place conducive to living. We have...neither...at our disposal."

"The Order will try to make paladins out of them."

Declan didn't bother with the obvious. Of course they would. Both of the twins' parents had been superlative paladins. It was only expected that the Order would consider them as a legacy to that ancestry.

"Enough of the bickering." Bredit growled, "Declan. Ask the master for permission to lay our mother to rest. We can concern ourselves with the bairns later, it will be years before they're more than blobs to be trained into anything. Our mother, on the other hand, should not stay like this."

"Lay her where?" Declan would be lost without the rocks of the family, Bredit, Raien, Khraben, and the orc. They counter balanced the more flighty ones, kept them grounded in reality.

The dwarf's brows rose in amazement, her blue eyes widening. "Why, here."

Here. Of course. Where else? They had very little experience with dead who stayed that way, but she was correct. Besseth should be laid to rest here, in this Cathedral. Close, held within them.

"You!" She continued, snapping her fingers at the geist. It bounded down, landing at her feet, staring up at her quizzically. Unlike Ellorie, who feared it, and the males, who bothered it, Bredit rarely acknowledged its existence. "Bring me back Besseth's wedding gown. Intact. Clean. Undisturbed."

"I'll go make the request." He muttered, uncertain if he really wanted to this soon after the failure to raise her. Neither the master nor Kel'thuzad were pleased with this, and he'd prefer to not be a convenient target for their ire.

"Declan." The master did not sound pleased, but he did not sound enraged, and Declan raised his eyes from the floor. The king had returned to his throne, Kel'thuzad nowhere in sight. Declan wasn't certain if that was a good, or bad, thing. It meant they had given up, that he comprehended. "More requests from your siblings?"

"My master..." That smooth question could hide a multitude of sins, and Declan fought to keep from flinching.

"She stays dead?"

"Yes, my master." There was the hope under that question that led him to believe that the king merely hoped that Besseth was a slow riser. Declan doubted that, too much time had passed, and she stayed as she was.

"Pity. She should have been glorious. What is the request?"

"We desire to lay her to rest within the Cathedral. As befits..." What, he wasn't certain. Her station? Whatever that was. Her service? There were hints that might not have been as stellar as he'd thought. Besseth's living nature had allowed her to hide things within her, things he was unable to touch.

The king steepled his fingers together, staring at Declan over their summit. "As befits her service to me." He finished mildly, and Declan waited. The master was difficult to read in this mood, and any comment could be the one to set him off. "Which was always beyond reproach. I gambled, Declan. We lost." He shrugged slightly. "It happens. Bury your mother here, in the Cathedral, with all due ceremony. Your sibling may doubt your mother's heart, but I do not."

"Dresh." The geist snickered, offering up a ribbon tied bundle to Declan.

"You enjoy this too much." Declan snapped, taking it from him and smoothing the bow. It was too nicely packaged to be the geist's handiwork, this had been how it was when he'd found it.

"Bitch." It purred, and Declan contemplated violence and mayhem against it. It sensed it had gone too far and silenced immediately, making itself smaller and more easily overlooked.

"You are not indispensable."

"Yesh, master."

Declan tucked the bundle under his elbow and returned to the Cathedral. The children had come to a detente, and he could sense who was with whom based on which side of the Cathedral they stood on. Their mother had loved them all equally. Made them a family, but he feared that they would not survive as such without her guidance. "Here, Bredit. We garb her in this." He gave the ribbon bow one last, fleeting touch before giving up the bundle. "And we lay her to rest here, with the master's blessings."

Diarmid looked confused, a touch outraged, at those words. "The master's blessings?" He repeated dubiously, and Raien hissed in anger at them.

"Mother would not have fallen had we not sent her to." Declan was uncertain as what, precisely, Besseth's orders were from the master, but she had seemed to follow them. The fact that they had permission to bury her like this, the fact that the master was not screaming curses upon her, upon them, told him that. There was no arguing the fact that she would have never fallen had they been permitted to move and recover her immediately after Light's Hope.

"Precisely." Raien agreed. "You feel betrayed, Diarmid. We all do. But Besseth did as she was ordered. And she has died in his service for it. I will not let her babies be destroyed for the fact that you want her back. They stay with the Order. But she does not. We lay her to rest here, with us. They cannot have her back..." He moved from the shadows, standing at her head. "Let's get her cleaned up and ready."

Epilogue:

Icecrown was just as Anselm had left it, three years ago, just after Besseth's death. He'd expected more of a change, as he had been changed, but disappointed him again. He had spent those interim years far from here, not chasing the glory he had imagined as a youth, but truly standing as the paladin he'd been raised to be. His attention had been required at Stormwind, standing as support to the man he viewed as a father, as an uncle to the little ones who had been left motherless and often, fatherless. Tibault's fall into despair after his wife's death had left him often unfit to care for the twins, and Anselm had willingly stepped into the void. He'd learned one thing at Besseth's side, and the main was that the soul who trained the young was as valuable as the one who bore a sword...or more so. He might never become the paladin he had dreamed of, but he rarely noted the loss of that dream. His fingers stroked the lavender ribbon tied around the pommel of his sword, a ribbon from Tabby's braids. None of their children were orphans. They all belonged...

"Lord Anselm. You travel far from home." The statement was without judgment. His decision was respected within the Order, and indeed, within his own family. Even now, his parents kept the twins, raising them alongside their grandchildren given to them for safekeeping. Anselm was not the only of their brood to stand here on this frozen land, not the only one to bear responsibility for little ones.

"We draw close to the Citadel." Anselm stated, and the woman nodded. "And still no sign of Besseth?"

Her brows rose quickly, before she schooled her features back into serenity. The Order had been looking for Besseth, in the Lich King's forces, since the day she had dropped. And still, nothing. Her value to her dark master had never been in the front, however, and she could still be within the black walls of his citadel... "None, my Lord. It is as if the land has swallowed her up..."

"Or she's been training more..."

The paladin grimaced. Their intelligence had put names and identities to Besseth's children, and the fewer of those that the Lich King had access to, the better. By now, she could have easily trained two or three more... an even dozen champions of the Scourge with her mark upon them. "We've seen nothing. Heard nothing. No new champions, my lord. Not on that level."

"Damnation." He hissed. He'd rather know, than be ignorant. It was not bliss, after all. He wanted to know when he was about to run headlong into the woman he viewed as a mother, be ready to steel his soul to the idea of dragging her down and putting her out of her misery. And he had little doubts that was what he'd be doing. Besseth had been truly a paladin that last day, and he would believe no different even if it came from her cold lips today.

"I am sorry. We have been looking since she fell, and still...nothing."

He nodded. So she was ensconced in Icecrown Citadel, training again. Or she was before them the entire time, unrecognizable as Besseth. His mind's eye conjured a dark glory when he considered that, showed him a death knight as superlative as the paladin she had been. "No new dark champions?" He asked again, and the paladin shook her head sharply.

"No. Lord Anselm, we have been looking with the idea that she herself would turn up as one. That she could be training more, while she kept behind those walls. We have faced her children before, they all have certain mannerisms that make them stand out. There are no new ones. There are no new dark knights who could be Besseth herself that we have seen. She must still be within the Citadel."

Which meant she'd appear during the final assault. Anselm sighed, staring sightlessly over the icy glory that was Icecrown. He would lay his mother, the mother of the two little ones he had raised from infancy, to rest as she deserved.

"How are her children?"

He smiled in spite of himself at the question. Besseth's heart had been pure when she'd conceived her little ones, true in love, and they reflected that. "Rion and Tabby are her legacy to us, children to be proud of." He breathed. He could see the child that Besseth might have been in her daughter, the hints of a beauty obscured by a child's round cheeks. Tabby had Tibault's eyes, hazel green, but her mother's thick, darkening blonde hair and pale complexion. Rion had her wide brown eyes, and his father's reddish dark hair. Both hinted at height and heft.

He sighed, looking into the gates before him. They were so close now, the gates to the inner courtyard near to the breaching point, and beyond that... the Citadel. "Besseth." he stated to the view, "We come for you."

They breached late in the day, and Anselm stepped out, onto a width of paving stones. Before him, unmistakable... the Citadel steps. He sighed, staring. It was glorious, in a terrible way. And still no Besseth. He glanced to his side, feeling a presence beside him. He was not surprised to see Mograine, the death knight staring silently at the fixed doors of the Citadel.

"That will not fall easily." Mograine noted the obvious, and Anselm snorted.

"Still no Besseth." He said, and Mograine raised a brow, his gaze moving to his right, thoughtfully.

"No Besseth. No Besseth in...three years. No new champions with her marks upon their souls, when before, she produced them like a broodmare produces foals, one every year."

That was it, exactly. Anselm knew enough now, to realize that was so. The only variance had come in the beginning, when she'd gotten twins as a package deal... and the hiccup when she'd come to the Order. "Has she displeased the Lich King?" He asked, and Mograine chuckled drily.

"Besseth never displeased the master. I believe part of the reason why she did not join the Ebon Blade was due to the fact that we had." He pondered the idea for a long moment. "I still do not like that she has gone, without a trace. By now..." His eyes moved to the darkening sky above him. "We should have some trace of her. And there is still nothing." He stepped into a sudden stride, moving away from Anselm, off to his right and another set of great stairs.

"Where are you going, Mograine?" Anselm demanded, falling into step just behind him.

"No trace." He repeated enigmatically, taking the steps two at a time. This structure had been breached already, its doors hanging, shattered, and Mograine moved in without hesitation. Anselm recognized the building for it was, it shared much with the great Cathedral in Stormwind...pews, altar...

Mograine moved to the side, along the walls, studying them. His fingertips coasted along the cold surfaces as he walked, his attention focused. "You don't think..." Anselm asked finally, putting together what the death knight sought. If this was the Cathedral of Light, then Mograine was checking the places where a burial would have taken place. Did he honestly believe Besseth had truly fallen?

"It makes no sense that we've not seen her. The Lich King would not hide her. The morale blow to the Order to see her appear across the field would be too valuable to avoid. This is why Tibault will not take the field again...he's afraid of being called upon to destroy the woman he still loves. Tirion was the one who stood for her, his reputation is bound to her, and she fell? They'd flaunt that. The only reason to stay silent is if she didn't fall, if she remained true to the Light. That would be what they'd want to hide. They'd lay her here..." He stopped dead in his tracks, tilting his head, crouching slightly to read the inscription on the wall before him better. "Here." He repeated, and Anselm moved up beside him.

"Besseth Southcross Kellemen." He read aloud. That, and two dates was all the stone bore...one almost forty years earlier, and the other...three years ago. According to this, she had fallen on the day she'd been torn from them, just a fortnight after birthing her twins. "Mograine?"

The death knight surged to his feet, snatching one of the candle sticks from the floor and striking it against the paving stones, breaking the candle off to create a pry bar. Anselm steadied the stone on the opposite side as Mograine shifted the stone, finally getting enough of a grasp on it to help him pull the stone free. The uncertain light in the cathedral caught dark blonde hair, and his heart clenched. It was not empty. Someone rested here. Someone with Besseth's hair.

Mograine grasped the slab that the body rested upon and pulled. What few doubts that Anselm had vanished. "She did not rise." He murmured. No, Besseth was here. The body was incredibly well preserved, more than recognizable as her without the name placed upon it, the wedding ring still binding her left ring finger, and the signet of the Order binding her right. He didn't need to recognize the gown she'd been buried in. "Didn't they try?"

Mograine placed his gauntleted hand over her still chest, the other resting on her forehead. "They tried." He breathed. "They failed. The magic still flows through her, but Besseth did not rise. It is one of the reasons she's still so..." He almost said it, then caught his tongue and shrugged. "Intact." He settled on a word after a long pause. "The magic to repair her body worked. The magic to raise her, did not. She died that evening...here." His silver blue eyes, lambent with power, glanced at the altar. "She died as a paladin of your Order, her death has marked this place."

Anselm took a long,shuddering breath, feeling the fears of the past three years lift. He would not face Besseth across a field of battle. She had turned away from that, saved them that. She had died as his mother, as his sister in the Order, a true and valiant death. "If the Lich King manages a counter assault, we may not hold the Cathedral again. Now that we've breached her niche, her children will try to reclaim her. Take her back to Stormwind, now." The death knight scooped her up without ceremony or preamble, offering her to Anselm. He accepted her weight, and nodded. His job here was to face Besseth. And he had her. He strode from the shadowed darkness of the breached Cathedral, into the deepening twilight outside. The lowering clouds vibrated with thunder, but he spared them no glance... moving down the steps beyond with a purpose.

"Lord Anselm...what?" The female paladin who had stood beside him watched him come back with widening eyes. "That is...?"

"Besseth did not rise." He stated, "My mistress stayed true to the Order."

"Tibault." There was a voice that Tibault would just as soon forget, and he sighed, gazing out over the foggy fields before him. Again, he would ask. And again, Tibault would refuse.

"Highlord?"

"You need to return to Stormwind."

Oh. It went from should return, which had been Tirion's last argument, to a need. Tibault did not bother to swallow the snort he gave in reaction. "And why is that?" He asked, glancing at Tirion. He didn't need to go anywhere... He didn't even need to raise his own children. The Order, Anselm, were more than happy to take even that away from him.

"For Besseth's funeral. We've brought her out of Northrend. She lies in the Order chapel so that those who wish to can give their final respects. Her husband should be the first."

So, Besseth had been torn down in Northrend, never to rise again. He nodded slowly, letting a gusty sigh free. That was over. He could take the field again without the constant, sick wait to see the one person he could not fight come after him. "I come." He promised, and some of the dire edge to Tirion's expression lifted.

"We have always been here for you, Tibault."

Tibault knew that. It had not made it any easier, but he'd always known that. He fell into step behind the Highlord, riding the short way to Stormwind in silence. He was happy to be left alone with his thoughts, and Tirion apparently felt no need to interrupt his reverie. Once in the city, the Highlord made a line straight for the lodge, and the Chapel, dismounting just outside of its doors. Tibault followed, his eyes downcast. Dead was dead. He'd seen enough of it in his life to know what he was about to see.

There was another within the chapel, and Tibault was not surprised to see it was Anselm. That one had not shirked his duties as Tibault had. He'd taken the twins. And when called, had gone to Northrend after Besseth. "My father." Anselm stated. "We have returned your wife to our hold..." He stepped to the side, and Tibault's stomach plummeted. He'd expected...worse. So much worse. Besseth rested on the slab, bathed in pale sunlight from the skylight above her, garbed in her wedding gown. She looked...asleep. Whole.

"I don't...understand." He managed, and Tirion smiled.

"She would not rise. She chose to remain as one of us, rather than rise as one of his. She remained true to her vows, Tibault. To us. To you."

He contemplated the floor, the pattern obscured when his eyes filled. Part of him had embraced the idea that Besseth was not gone. That she served her king, still cherished. That she persisted. She had been his after she'd served the Lich King for years, and had still become his bride, the mother of his children. If she had returned to his service, then she could be turned again. But this was gone. And according to them, she'd been gone the whole time. The hope had been for naught.

There was a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he thought it was from Tirion, but Darion Mograine stood there, his face solemn. "You do not want what you think you do, my friend." The death knight murmured. "Besseth's greatest glory was that she lived, and saved her heart from him. If that had gone, then she would be no better than the rest of us. Celebrate her victory. Celebrate her freedom. Love the gifts she gave you."

He walked up to her, gazing down. There was no denying this. She had not risen. For the first time since she had fallen, he felt rage stir in his heart. She was gone. She'd been torn away from him, away from her babies, those who loved her, and the damned fools had failed to raise her. They'd merely succeeded in murdering her. They had murdered his wife. Because of them, his children would never know her. Because of them, he no longer had her standing beside him. Because they could not hold her, they had destroyed her.

"I want to return to Northrend." He stated, and Mograine released his shoulder. Tirion only nodded, his gaze fixed on the bright windows beyond him. "They will pay for this." He continued, and Anselm grasped the pommel of his sword reflexively.

"They will, my father." He agreed. "We will crush the walls of Icecrown and bring them down upon their heads."


End file.
